Her tone was perfectly gentle, but the remark, nevertheless, showed a lack of tact. It implied that all his life Mr. Povey had been enveloping his neck in something which was horrid. Like all persons with a tendency to fall into the ridiculous, Mr. Povey was exceedingly sensitive to personal criticisms. He flushed darkly.
“I didn’t know they were ‘horrid,’” he snapped. He was hurt and angry. Anger had surprised him unawares.
Both of them suddenly saw that they were standing on the edge of a chasm, and drew back. They had imagined themselves to be wandering safely in a flowered meadow, and here was this bottomless chasm! It was most disconcerting.
Mr. Povey’s hand hovered undecided over the collar. “However—” he muttered.
She could feel that he was trying with all his might to be gentle and pacific. And she was aghast at her own stupid clumsiness, she so experienced!
“Just as you like, dear,” she said quickly. “Please!”
“Oh no!” And he did his best to smile, and went off gawkily with the collar and came back with a linen one.
Her passion for him burned stronger than ever. She knew then that she did not love him for his good qualities, but for something boyish and naive that there was about him, an indescribable something that occasionally, when his face was close to hers, made her dizzy.
The chasm had disappeared. In such moments, when each must pretend not to have seen or even suspected the chasm, small-talk is essential.
“Wasn’t that Mr. Yardley in the shop to-night?” began Constance.