How's
Pervin?--isn't he here?'
'Oh, yes, he's upstairs changing. Yes, he's awfully well. Take off your
wet things; I'll send them to be dried.'
'And how are you both, in spirits? He doesn't fret?'
'No--no, not at all. No, on the contrary, really. We've been wonderfully
happy, incredibly. It's more than I can understand--so wonderful: the
nearness, and the peace--'
'Ah! Well, that's awfully good news--'
They moved away. Pervin heard no more. But a childish sense of desolation
had come over him, as he heard their brisk voices. He seemed shut
out--like a child that is left out. He was aimless and excluded, he did
not know what to do with himself. The helpless desolation came over him.
He fumbled nervously as he dressed himself, in a state almost of
childishness. He disliked the Scotch accent in Bertie's speech, and the
slight response it found on Isabel's tongue. He disliked the slight purr
of complacency in the Scottish speech. He disliked intensely the glib way
in which Isabel spoke of their happiness and nearness. It made him
recoil. He was fretful and beside himself like a child, he had almost a
childish nostalgia to be included in the life circle. And at the same
time he was a man, dark and powerful and infuriated by his own weakness.
By some fatal flaw, he could not be by himself, he had to depend on the
support of another. And this very dependence enraged him.
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