There was a moment during which the only sound in the room was the sound of her quivering sobs. Julian stood quite still; on the first instant there leapt into his face such a look of fierce, vindictive anger as absolutely transformed it. The look faded slowly into a kind of bitter background, and a hard sullenness settled itself upon it—settled with some difficulty as it seemed, for his lips twitched a little. Then he advanced into the room and broke the silence, and the roughness in his tone seemed to defy something within himself. He made no attempt to light the gas. The lamp outside made it possible to move about, and apparently he did not care for further illumination.
“Come, Clemence,” he said, “what’s the matter?”
He had not approached her; on the contrary, he was on the other side of the room looking down at her across the lodging-house table. She did not raise her head or move as she replied; indeed, the choked, broken words were rather the expression of the mingled shame and pity with which she was crushed than a definite answer to his words.
“Oh! Julian! Julian! Julian!”
Apparently the tone of her voice affected him in spite of himself, for his face twitched again, and he spoke more harshly still.
“What’s the matter, I say?”
She stretched her hands out to him across the table, still without lifting her face, in an unconscious gesture of appeal.
“Oh, don’t!” she cried beseechingly and piteously. “Don’t, dear! Don’t pretend any more. I—I know!”
The hands thrust deep down into Julian’s pockets were clenched fiercely, and his teeth were set together, as a look rose in his eyes which they had never held before.
“My mother?” he said.