His white, intent face admitted of many interpretations, even of one altogether new to her, for she felt in it something of a hesitation, a perplexity, that suggested weakness. For once he was not sure of himself; or, rather, not sure of what he was to do. Felicia, near the window, looked silently at him.
“It’s true, then, you have left him?”
His eyes sounded hers as though he, too, were finding new meanings in her.
“Yes, I have left him. Who told you?”
“Your father. He was just leaving the flat. He was very incoherent. All I could grasp was that.”
He did not know then, and any revelation of what his attitude would be when he did know was adjourned. Felicia, feeling suddenly how faint she was, how weak from want of food and sleep, went past him and sank into the deep old chair before the fire.
“Sit down. You must be tired. You had to walk from the station? There was no fly?”
“No. I didn’t mind the walk.” Geoffrey did not sit down; he took a turn or two up and down the room.
“Your father said that you would never go back to your husband.”
“I never will.”