He lit a cigarette and sat down on the sofa, and the chief feeling in his heart was a strange hope, a sort of funereal gladness. He would have to go and see her at once, that very night; an excuse—no need to wait in here—to wait—wait on the chance of her coming.
He got up and drank some whisky, then went back to the sofa and sat down again.
'If she is not here by eight,' he thought, 'I will go round.'
Opposite was a full-length mirror, and he turned to the wall to avoid it. There was fixed on his face a look of gloomy determination, as though he were thinking, 'I'll show them all that I'm not beaten yet.'
At the click of a latch-key he scrambled off the sofa, and his face resumed its mask. She came in as usual, dropped her opera cloak, and stood before him with bare shoulders. Looking in her face, he wondered if she knew.
“I thought I'd better come,” she said. “I suppose you've had the same charming present?”
George nodded. There was a minute's silence.
“It's really rather funny. I'm sorry for you, George.”
George laughed too, but his laugh was different.
“I will do all I can,” he said.