The door opened. She knew who it was because she heard him start suddenly with a little exclamation of surprise. She turned and looked at him. Her first thought was that he seemed desperately weary, weary with a fatigue not only physical. His whole bearing was that of a man beaten, defeated, raging, it might be, with the consciousness of his defeat but beyond all hope of avenging it. Her pity for him made her tremble but, with that, she realised that the worst thing that she could do was to show pity. What had he expected? To find her gone? To find her still sitting defiantly where he had left her? To see her crying, perhaps on her knees before him, beseeching him? Anything but not this.
She could see that he was astonished and was resolved not to let her know it.
He moved past her without a word, and went into the other room. She said nothing, but bent over the sausages. They were sizzling and flung out a splendid smell.
He came back without his hat and coat. He stood by the bedroom door and slowly looked round the room, taking everything in.
"I thought you'd have gone," he said; "I warned you."
She looked up at him, laughing:
"I haven't," she said. "Whatever happens afterwards, Martin, we may as well have one meal together. I'm very hungry. I know you'll forgive my using your room like this, but I didn't want to go to a shop. So I just brought the things in here."
His eyes lighted on the hyacinth.
"I know what your game is," he said huskily. "But it isn't any good. You may as well chuck it."
"All right," she said. "After we've had a meal."