He had the whip-hand now. There was nothing for them to say; they said nothing, staring at him, their lips parted.
He walked through to the door of the hall and there paused like an actor making his exit from the stage. A cynical smile still floated on his lips. He had never looked more handsome, with his black hair, his clean-cut head, and his fine, deep eyes that looked them over calmly, without haste. His costume became him and he wore it well. Now, as he raised his hand, the long sleeve of his olive green coat fell a little away from his fingers. Below, his lavender trousers gleamed softly. It was a queer draping for his serious pose. It was a strangely figured pair that he addressed as they sat, embarrassed, immovable in their splendid silken garments.
He added more gently, with no trace of sarcasm in his smooth voice: "I would like to tell you, if it is any satisfaction for you to know, that your operation has been successful. It was rather painful, without the anesthetic of kindness, but I shall recover. I think I may even be better for it, perhaps restored to health—who knows!" Then his smile became enigmatic; he left them and went down the stairs.
He made his way to Clytie with a new assurance; inexplicably to him, some innate power, long in reserve, had risen to meet the emergency. He was exhilarated, as with a victory. She looked up at him puzzled.
"I wonder if you know what has happened this time?" he said.
"Oh, if I only did! Something has—you have changed, somehow."
"Is it an improvement?"
"You know, it is my theory that you're going to—" She gave up her explanation—her lips quivered. "Well, yes! You have been embarrassed?"
"I suppose it was good for my vanity."
"Then you have heard something unpleasant."