He entered. He closed the door after him. Then she looked around.
The situation was as strained, as tautened, as is the gut of a snapping fiddle-string. Every sound seemed to vibrate in itself. For an instant he stood still, coming forward at last, hand outstretched to relieve the tension.
"Well, how are you, Sally?" he asked.
The random speech, jerked out—any words to break the silence. Even he felt it beating on his brain.
She shook hands with him. For the brief moment he touched her cold fingers in the grip of his; then she withdrew them.
"Let me take your hat," she said.
He gave it her. Watched her as she crossed the room to lay it on the chintz-covered settee, turned then to the fireplace, biting a nail between his teeth.
"Do you know the kettle's boiling?" he forced himself to say.
"Yes; I'm just going to make tea. You'll have some tea?"
"Oh, rather. You promised that."