Henry's first thought was: "Now I must show no surprise at this. I mustn't hurt Peter's feelings." And his second: "Oh dear! Poor thing! How terribly ill she looks!"
His consciousness of her was at once so strong that he forgot himself and Peter. He had never seen any one in the least like her before: this was not Peter's wife come back to him, but some one who had peered up for a moment out of a world so black and tragic that Henry had never even guessed at its existence. Not his experiences in the War, not his mother's death, nor Duncombe's tragedy, nor Christina and her horrible parent were real to him as was suddenly this little woman with her strange yellow hair, her large angry eyes, her shabby black dress. What a face!—he would never forget it so long as life lasted—with its sickness and anger and disgust and haggard rebellion.
Yes, there were worse things than the War, worse things than assaults on the body, than maiming and sudden death. His young inexperience took a shoot into space at that instant when he first saw Clare Westcott.
She stared at him scornfully, then she suddenly put her hand to her throat and sat down on the sofa with pain in her eyes and a stare of rebellious anger as though she were saying:
"I'll escape you yet. . . . But you're damned persistent. . . . Leave me, can't you?"
Peter came to her. "Clare, this is Henry Trenchard—my best friend."
Henry came across holding out his hand:
"How do you do? I'm very glad to meet you?"
She gave him her hand, it was hot and dry.