“He will come in soon. At about seven o'clock.”
Then there was a silence again.
“You are dressed fine today,” he said to her.
“Am I?” she smiled.
He was never able to make out quite what she felt, what she was feeling. But she had a quiet little air of proprietorship in him, which he did not like.
“You will stay to dinner tonight, won't you?” she said.
“No—not tonight,” he said. And then, awkwardly, he added: “You know. I think it is better if we are friends—not lovers. You know—I don't feel free. I feel my wife, I suppose, somewhere inside me. And I can't help it—-”
She bent her head and was silent for some moments. Then she lifted her face and looked at him oddly.
“Yes,” she said. “I am sure you love your wife.”
The reply rather staggered him—and to tell the truth, annoyed him.