Anne said no more and left the room.
In the evening, while putting her little son to sleep, she thought of past anniversaries.... Since when had life changed so much between her and Thomas? The change must have come slowly, she had not noticed it.
The child was asleep. Anne opened the door of the sunshine room and, after a long time, unconsciously sat down to the piano. She did not play, she did not sing, just leaned her head on it as if she were leaning it on somebody’s shoulder.
When Christopher arrived he found his sister there near the mute instrument.
Anne looked at her brother aghast. How he had changed of late. Clothes of an English cut hung on his body. His once lovely hair with the silver shine had thinned round his deep blue-veined temples. The light eyelashes appeared heavy over his exhausted eyes.
“And Thomas, gone a-shooting?”
“Have you been ill?” asked Anne, sitting down opposite to him in the dining room.
“What makes you think so? No, just a trifle.” Christopher ate hastily, speaking all the time in a snatchy way. “There is nothing the matter with me, only my nerves are bad just now when I shall stand most in need of them. I want to achieve great things. I have learned many new things. But they require nerve.”
He lit a cigar; the match moved queerly between his fingers. “In the past life depended on the muscles of man, so development of muscles was the principal aim of education. Now we have to rely for everything on nerves, and nobody looks after them.” His mouth twitched slightly to one side. “Tell me, Anne, do you feel sometimes as if strings quivered in your neck high up to the brain?”
“No, I don’t feel that,” said Anne, and stared at him.