"Come in!"
He opened the door and closed it behind him, standing with his back to it. He did not take off his hat. A cold little shudder ran over him. She was more beautiful than ever.
She rose from a dilapidated corduroy divan, pressed the coal of a cigarette into the ash-tray, and faced him, her air one of hesitance and timidity. What she saw was a squat muscular body, a beautiful head with a rugged, kindly face. She noted the hair, shot with silver. That was always a good sign. Still, there was something in the elevation of his jaw and the set of his powerful shoulders she did not like.
What he saw was a woman of medium height, slender but perfectly molded, young, beautiful, exquisite. Her hair was the color of spun molasses, lustrous because the color was genuine. Her eyes were velvety purple. The skin was milk-white, with a hint of peachblow under the eyes and temples. The marvel of her lay in the fact that she never had to make up. The devil had given her all those effectives for which most women strive in vain. Innocence! She might have stepped out of one of Bouguereau's masterpieces. At one corner of her mouth was the most charming mole imaginable. You might look at her nose, her eyes, the curve of her chin, but invariably your glance returned to the mole. The devil's finishing-touch; it permitted you to see the mouth indirectly, and you lost the salient—a certain grim, cruel hardness.
He waited with an ironical twist to one corner of his mouth. But in his heart there was great rejoicing. Aside from the initial chill—nothing, not a thrill, not a tingle at the roots of his hair. He could look upon her beauty without a single extra heartbeat. He was free, spiritually as well as legally.
"Well?" he said.
"I came to Manila, to you, because I am tired and repentant and want a home. I am growing old."
He laughed and rested his shoulders against the door. There was a repressed volcanic flash in her eyes. That laugh did not presage well.
"Is it so hard to forgive?" Vocal honey.