They fidgeted about the drawing-room and tried to make conversation. But an obstinate silence again and again reasserted itself. The candles in the chandelier had burnt low and the wax fell in greasy drops on the carpet. The atmosphere was heavy with the smell of food and the fumes of the wines which mingled with the voluptuous perfume of carnations and heliotrope, exhaled by Helena’s bridal bouquet that lay on a side-table.
At last he went up to her, held out his arms, and said in a voice which he hoped sounded natural:
“And now you are my wife!”
“What do you mean?” was Helena’s brusque reply.
Completely taken aback, he allowed his arms to drop to his sides. But he pulled himself together again, almost immediately, and said with a self-conscious smile:
“I mean to say that we are husband and wife.”
Helena looked at him as if she thought that he had taken leave of his senses.
“Explain your words!” she said.
That was just what he couldn’t do. Philosophy and ethics failed him; he was faced by a cold and exceedingly unpleasant reality.
“It’s modesty,” he thought. “She’s quite right, but I must attack and do my duty.”