She breaks down, and bursts into bitter weeping.
Georgie throws herself on her knees before her.
"Is this your luggage, sir? Glad to see you back again, sir."
"Thank you, Jeffers. Yes, that is mine. All right at home, I hope? Your mistress quite well?"
"Quite well, sir. She is at home, awaiting you."
Dorian turns away with a bitter smile. "At home, awaiting him!" What a wretched fool he once was, when he used to really picture to himself a fair fond woman waiting and longing for his return, whenever Fate had called him from her side!
Arriving at Sartoris, he runs up the stairs to his own room, meeting no one on his way. He smiles again—the same unlovely smile—as he tells himself that Jeffers exaggerated the case a little,—as, plainly, Georgie has taken special pains to be out of the way to avoid meeting him on his first arrival.
Opening his door, he goes in, closing it firmly behind him. Everything in the room is just as he had left it. Nothing has been changed; the very book he had been reading is lying now open at the page he had last looked into. A glorious fire is burning in the grate. A delicate Bohemian vase is filled with some rare sweet flowers.
Whose hand had gathered them? If it was one of the servants, it was very thoughtful. He is very fond of flowers. He moves listlessly about, wondering vaguely how everything can look, after some months' absence, so exactly as if he had seen it only yesterday, when a small object lying on a side-table attracts his notice.