§ i
GILBERT was certainly very nervous. His nervousness took its usual form of a great rage and distress about his shirt, which he believed was inclined to bulge, and therefore to ruin and destroy him in the eyes of society. Moreover, his own image in the glass filled him with resentment, that portly and ungainly figure, his grey hair, his unromantic aspect. Nothing but a father, that’s all he was, a money-maker. He strode around the bedroom, swearing bitterly and scowling, but toward this exhibition of ill-temper Claudine was neither frigid nor superior. She felt sorry for him. She chatted as she brushed her hair, and she succeeded in soothing him a little.
“You look very distinguished, Gilbert!” she said, and she was ready to believe it.
“Humph!” he said, hiding his pleasure. “That tailor’s a fool. The coat wrinkles there, over the shoulders.”
“Not when you stand up straight. I suppose you do, when you’re being fitted, you know.”
He straightened himself and looked again. It did look better.
“I hope she won’t get into one of her freakish humours,” he said. “Get stage fright, or anything of that sort.”
“She won’t,” Claudine assured him. “She’s not nervous in public. She’s not the least bit upset. Listen! She’s playing over her pieces now.... Oh, Gilbert! Isn’t she wonderful?”
He went over to open the door into the hall, so that the sound might reach him better, and the great volume of it impressed him. It must certainly betoken a remarkable skill to do that with such sureness; Claudine had never played so loudly and majestically.
“You’d better hurry a little, Gilbert,” said his wife. “I told Mary to serve dinner promptly at six, to give us plenty of time. I think I’ll go and hurry Bertie a little.”