She was tremulously nervous. Every sound caused her to start and move to that part of the parlor whence she could look down the long passageway to the stair-head. Large bunches of greenery were massed here in the angles of the hall and stood in the corners of the sitting-room. Bowls filled with violets and roses were set on the table and mantelpiece, and the scent of these flowers, sweet and delicate, mingled with the crude, powerful perfume that the woman’s draperies exhaled with every movement. At intervals she ran into her bedroom, seized the little, round, soft wad of white and rubbed it over her face with a quick concentric movement, drawing her upper lip down as she did so, which gave to her countenance with its anxious eyes an exceedingly comical expression.
It was nearly seven o’clock when the bell rang. With a last hasty look in the glass, she ran down the passageway to the stair-head. It was necessary to descend a few steps to a turn on the stairs from whence the lever that opened the door could be worked. As she stood on the small landing, thrown out in bright relief by a mass of dark leafage that stood in the angle of the wall, the door opened and Dominick entered. He looked up and saw her standing there, gaily dressed, a brilliant, animated figure, smiling down at him.
“Ah, Berny,” he said in a quiet, unemotional voice, “is that you?”
It was certainly not an enthusiastic greeting. A sensitive woman would have been shriveled by it, but Berny was not sensitive. She had realized from the start that she would probably have to combat the lingering surliness left by the quarrel. As Dominick ascended, her air of smiling welcome was marked by a bland cheery unconsciousness of any past unpleasantness. She was not, however, as unconscious as she looked. She noted his heaviness of demeanor, the tired expression of his lifted face. He came up the stairs slowly, not yet being completely recovered, and it added to the suggestion of reluctance, of difficult and spiritless approach, that seemed to encompass him in an unseen yet distinctly-felt aura.
As he rose on a level with her, she stretched out her hands and, laying them on his shoulders, drew him toward her and kissed him. The coldness of his cheek, damp with the foggy night air, chilled the caress and she drew back from him, not so securely confident in her debonair, smiling assurance. He patted her lightly on the shoulder by way of greeting and said,
“How are you? All right?”
“Oh, I’m all right,” she answered with brisk, determined sprightliness. “You’re the one to ask about. You walk stiff, still. How are your feet?”
She was glad to turn her eyes away from his face. It looked very tired, and the slight smile with which he had greeted her stayed only on his lips and did not extend to his fatigued eyes. He was evidently angry still, angry and unforgiving, and that he should be so, when she was so anxious to forget the ugly episode of the quarrel and be gay and friendly again, dashed her spirits and made her feel unsure of herself and upset. She was determined, however, to show him that she had forgotten all about it, and as he turned the angle of the stairway she thrust her hand inside his arm and walked up beside him. They might have been a happy married couple, reunited after an absence, slowly coming up the stairs together arm in arm.
A few minutes later they were seated opposite each other at dinner. The little table glowed and gleamed, all Berny’s bravery of silver and glass mustered for its adornment. The choice and delicate dinner began with a soup that Dominick especially liked, a fact which Berny hoped he would notice and mention. She was one of those women who have an unfailing memory for what people like to eat; a single expression of preference would remain in her mind for years. Dominick and she had not lived together for a month before she knew everything in the way of food he liked or disliked. When she was annoyed with him, or especially bitter against his mother, she would order nothing but dishes that he did not care for, and when she was in a more friendly mood, as to-night, she would take pains and time to arrange a menu composed of those he preferred. He usually did not notice these rewards and punishments, but Berny always thought he did and was “too stubborn,” as she expressed it to herself, to show that he was affected by them.
She observed to-night that he neither remarked, nor seemed to relish his food, but she made no comment, talking on in a breathless, lively way, asking questions of his trip, his accident, and the condition of his feet, as though there were no mortifying recollections connected with the cause of his sudden departure. Her only indication of embarrassment was a tendency to avoid anything like a moment of silence and to fly from one subject to another. Dominick answered her questions and told her of his wanderings with a slow, careful exactness. Save in the freezing of his feet, which matter he treated more lightly than it deserved, he was open with her in recounting the small happenings of what he called “his holiday,” from the time of his walk from Rocky Bar to the day of his departure from Antelope.