Isabel was always glad when they had passed through the dividing door into their own regions of repose and beauty. She was a little afraid of him, out there in the animal grossness of the back. His bearing also changed, as he smelt the familiar, indefinable odour that pervaded his wife’s surroundings, a delicate, refined scent, very faintly spicy. Perhaps it came from the pot-pourri bowls.
He stood at the foot of the stairs, arrested, listening. She watched him, and her heart sickened. He seemed to be listening to fate.
“He’s not here yet,” he said. “I’ll go up and change.”
“Maurice,” she said, “you’re not wishing he wouldn’t come, are you?”
“I couldn’t quite say,” he answered. “I feel myself rather on the qui vive.”
“I can see you are,” she answered. And she reached up and kissed his cheek. She saw his mouth relax into a slow smile.
“What are you laughing at?” she said roguishly.
“You consoling me,” he answered.
“Nay,” she answered. “Why should I console you? You know we love each other—you know how married we are! What does anything else matter?”
“Nothing at all, my dear.”