His body was crumpled up in the big chair; his legs were thrust out stiffly in front of him. He looked a heartrending interpretation of discomfort in his evening clothes, for he hadn't even loosened the collar. He had thought of it, but felt it might be disrespectful to Jan. Besides,
there was something of the chaperon about that collar.
Jan's tears that had refused to soften sorrow during the anguish of the night came now, hot and springing, to blur that absurd, pathetic figure looped sideways in the big chair.
It was so plain why he was there.
She sniffed helplessly (of course, she had lost her handkerchief), and thrust her knuckles into her eyes like any schoolboy.
When she could see again she noticed how thin was the queer, irregular face, with dark hollows round the eyes.
"I wonder if they feed him properly at that Yacht Club," thought Jan. "And here are we using his house and his cook and everything."
She swung her feet off the sofa and disentangled them from the shawl, folded it neatly and sat looking at Peter, who opened his eyes.
For a full minute they stared at each other in silence, then he stretched himself and rose.
"I say, have you slept?" he asked.