He rubbed his forehead wearily. His shoulders sagged, big beneath his loose coat. There was passive strength in his consciousness of defeat. She was aware of it.
The room closed them like a coffin. Their life was their own. It did not flow in from the street.
Beyond the window the square was sprinkled with lights. The thick-leafed trees were clouds of darkness, but here and there separate leaves up against the lamps glistened like wet metal.
He sighed. "I'm trying to line up my vocabulary in battle order, Miss Alice."
"I'm ready. Go ahead."
He did not begin at once. She watched his bowed head—thick, gray-sprinkled brown hair. There was beard on his cheek.
Suddenly she had a horror of herself creeping upon his thoughts through his weakness. She shuddered, shifting her book.
Dark. Flesh, aware of the world, slipping away. Flesh touched by the world without.
"As regards the international polity of the——"
She interrupted. "Say that again, Mr. Ridge." He had dictated several sentences and she had not heard him.