Then he stood again at his full height and blew smoke profusely about the mantelpiece. He was very close to Rachel, and above her. He could see the top of her bent, mysterious head; he could see all the changing curves of her breast as she breathed. He knew intimately her frock, the rings on her hand, the buckle on her shoe. He knew the whole feel of the room—the buzz of the gas, the peculiarities of the wall-paper, the thick curtain over the door to his right, the folds of the table-cloth. And in his infelicity and in his resentment against Rachel he savoured it all not without pleasure. The mere inviolable solitude with this young, strange, provocative woman in the night beyond the town stimulated him into a sort of zest of living.
There was a small sound from the young woman; her breathing was checked; she had choked down a dry sob. This signal, so faint and so dramatic in the stillness of the parlour, at once intimidated and encouraged him.
"What have you done with that money?" he asked, in a cold voice.
"What money?" Rachel replied, low, without raising her head. Her hand had ceased to move the needle.
"You know what money."
"I took it to Julian, of course."
"Why did you take it to Julian?"
"We agreed I should, last week—you yourself said so—don't you remember?" Her tones acquired some confidence.
"No, I don't remember. I remember something was said about letting him have half of it. Did you give him half or all of it?"
"I gave him all of it."