He had come to her; he helped her to alight. She saw that he was angry, that he intended to receive her rudely; then, that his moustache was curling ironically, as though in mockery because he was the stronger. She said nothing, however, took his hand calmly and alighted. He led her outside; and in the carriage they waited a moment for the trunk. His eyes took her in at a glance. She was wearing an old blue-serge skirt and a little blue-serge cape; but, notwithstanding her old clothes and her weary resignation, she looked a handsome and smartly-dressed woman.
“I am glad to see that you thought it advisable at last to carry out my wishes,” he said, in the end.
“I thought it would be best,” she answered, softly.
Her tone struck him; and he watched her attentively, out of the corner of his eyes. He did not understand her, but he was pleased that she had come. She was tired now, from excitement and travelling; but he thought that she looked most charming, even though she was not so brilliant as on that night, at Mrs. Uxeley’s ball, when he had first spoken to his divorced wife.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
“I have been a bit feverish for a day or two; and of course I had no sleep last night,” she said, as though in apology.
The trunk was brought and they drove away, to the Hôtel Continental. She did not speak again in the carriage. They were also silent as they entered the hotel and in the lift. He took her to his room. It was an ordinary hotel-bedroom; but she thought it strange to see his brushes lying on the dressing-table, his coats and trousers hanging on the pegs: familiar things with whose outlines and folds she was well-acquainted. She recognized his trunk in a corner.
He opened the windows wide. She had sat down on a chair, in an expectant attitude. She felt a little faint and closed her eyes, which were blinded by the stream of sunlight.
“You must be hungry,” he said. “What shall I order for you?”
“I should like some tea and bread-and-butter.”