Mrs. Pendyce looked at the skylight.
“It seems odd to see you here, dear, but it's very nice—so unconventional. You must let me put away those poor flowers!” She went to the silver cup and bent over them. “My dear boy, they're quite nasty! Do throw them outside somewhere; it's so dreadful, the smell of old flowers!”
She held the cup out, covering her nose with her handkerchief.
George took the cup, and like a cat spying a mouse, Mrs. Pendyce watched him take it out into the garden. As the door closed, quicker, more noiseless than a cat, she slipped behind the curtains.
'I know he has a pistol,' she thought.
She was back in an instant, gliding round the room, hunting with her eyes and hands, but she saw nothing, and her heart lightened, for she was terrified of all such things.
'It's only these terrible first hours,' she thought.
When George came back she was standing where he had left her. They sat down in silence, and in that silence, the longest of her life, she seemed to feel all that was in his heart, all the blackness and bitter aching, the rage of defeat and starved possession, the lost delight, the sensation of ashes and disgust; and yet her heart was full enough already of relief and shame, compassion, jealousy, love, and deep longing. Only twice was the silence broken. Once when he asked her whether she had lunched, and she who had eaten nothing all day answered:
“Yes, dear—yes.”
Once when he said: