He left her in the shadows as the older of her children, a tow-headed girl of three, came down the path to meet her, calling out her name.
On returning to the slate-colored house, he opened the door to find Naomi awaiting him.
“Supper is ready,” she said. “I sent Essie to the restaurant for it, so you wouldn’t have to walk up there.”
He thanked her, and she answered, “I thought you’d be tired after walking so long.”
“Thank you. I did take a long walk. I wanted to get into the open country.”
While they ate, sitting opposite each other, beneath the glow of the dome painted with wild-roses, he noticed that she was changed. She seemed nervous and uneasy: she kept pressing him to eat more. She was flushed and even smiled at him once or twice. He tried to answer the smile, but his face seemed made of lead. The effort gave him pain.
Suddenly he thought, “My God! She is trying to be nice to me!” And he was frightened without knowing why. It was almost as if, for a moment, the earth had opened and he saw beneath his feet a chasm, vague and horrible, and sinister.
He thought, “What can have changed her?” For lately there had grown up between them a slow and insinuating enmity that was altogether new. There were moments when he had wanted to turn away and not see her at all.
She poured more coffee for him, and he became aware suddenly that his nerves were on edge, that he was seeing everything with a terrible clarity—the little freckles on the back of her hand, the place where the cup was chipped, the very figures and tiny discolorations of the ornate wallpaper.
“Your mother won’t be home till late,” she said. “She’s gone to report her talk with Mr. Slade to the ladies of the Union.”