“You almost terrify me,” said Felicia; “would the world turn round the other way again if I proved horrid?”
“Oh, no, that is done with. If you proved horrid I would suffer, but the world would continue to turn in the right direction—despite your wrongness.”
“Ah, that’s a real conversion then.” Felicia rose, laying down her work. She was touched, near tears. Standing beside him and looking down at him she said, “Shall I play to you?”
“Do,” said Geoffrey, but taking her hand he held it for a moment, adding quietly, in almost a matter-of-fact voice, “Dear.”
He had let go her hand as quietly when Angela was ushered in.
Angela and Felicia had not met since that night of the past spring, and the parting then made future meetings improbable.
Felicia had put Angela and Angela’s meaning behind her, and had not doubted that Angela would acquiesce in mutual forgetfulness. It was astonishing and very disconcerting to see again this spectre rise, and rise, as always it seemed, in Geoffrey’s presence.
She advanced into the room, smiling vaguely—vaguely hesitating, an intentness under the hesitation.
Felicia still stood beside Geoffrey, and before he, too, rose, and faced the unwelcome guest, their attitude almost implied the clasp of hands that Angela had not seen.
Her eyes fluttered quickly from one to the other and then fixed in a long gaze on Felicia.