She looked back over her shoulder with repugnance, as if she were looking at something sick, wounded, or diseased.
“Yes,” she said doubtfully, “I see....”
She turned back to him, her hostility gone, and a mournful look in her eyes.
“I never supposed,” she said haltingly, “that you—”
She paused, and then went on,
“—You too—”
Under her glance he straightened up, ashamed of himself. He rose. He must, he supposed, have looked silly....
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’m sorry too—Felix,” she answered, and there was in her tone the quality of a farewell.
There was something bracing at this moment in her scornful silence as she let him walk out of the room.... He went to the bathroom and washed his face; looked at himself in the mirror: was the face he saw there the one that had been twisted in grotesque sobbing a few minutes ago? No one would have guessed it.... He looked hard at that face, for some sign of weakness. But it seemed to him that the weakness had been burned out of it by the fire of a girl’s scorn. It was a face indifferent and aloof from sorrow, with amused eyes and jauntily smiling mouth. Yes, that was Felix Fay as he should be.