He hated Bertie
Reid, and at the same time he knew the hatred was nonsense, he knew it
was the outcome of his own weakness.
He went downstairs. Isabel was alone in the dining-room. She watched him
enter, head erect, his feet tentative. He looked so strong-blooded and
healthy, and, at the same time, cancelled. Cancelled--that was the word
that flew across her mind. Perhaps it was his scars suggested it.
'You heard Bertie come, Maurice?' she said.
'Yes--isn't he here?'
'He's in his room. He looks very thin and worn.'
'I suppose he works himself to death.'
A woman came in with a tray--and after a few minutes Bertie came down. He
was a little dark man, with a very big forehead, thin, wispy hair, and
sad, large eyes. His expression was inordinately sad--almost funny. He
had odd, short legs.
Isabel watched him hesitate under the door, and glance nervously at her
husband. Pervin heard him and turned.
'Here you are, now,' said Isabel. 'Come, let us eat.'
Bertie went across to Maurice.
'How are you, Pervin,' he said, as he advanced.
The blind man stuck his hand out into space, and Bertie took it.
'Very fit. Glad you've come,' said Maurice.
Isabel glanced at them, and glanced away, as if she could not bear to see
them.
'Come,' she said. 'Come to table. Aren't you both awfully hungry? I am,
tremendously.'
'I'm afraid you waited for me,' said Bertie, as they sat down.
Pages:
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97