“Oh yes. Two days ago. He left a message for you.”
“Yes. Maggie gave it me. By the way, I’m sorry she’s not in.”
“I’ve just seen her,” said Hilda.
“Oh!”
“She came in to see Janet. They’re having a cup of tea in George’s bedroom. So I put my things on and walked round here at once.”
As Hilda made this surprising speech she gazed full at Edwin.
Three.
A blush slowly covered his face. They both sat silent. Only the fire crackled lustily. Edwin thought, as his agitation increased and entirely confused him, “No other woman was ever like this woman!” He wanted to rise masterfully, to accomplish some gesture splendid and decisive, but he was held in the hollow of the easy chair as though by paralysis. He looked at Hilda; he might have been looking at a stranger. He tried to read her face, and he could not read it. He could only see in it vague trouble. He was afraid of her. The idea even occurred to him that, could he be frank with himself, he would admit that he hated her. The moments were intensely painful; the suspense exasperating and excruciating. Ever since their last encounter he had anticipated this scene; his fancy had been almost continuously busy in fashioning this scene. And now the reality had swept down upon him with no warning, and he was overwhelmed.
She would not speak. She had withdrawn her gaze, but she would not speak. She would force him to speak.