She gave polite answers, but again I had that first impression of her that she was making an effort to keep her attention from wandering, that she felt no interest in what I was saying.
“Have you an amusing book to pass the time?” I asked.
She looked at a pile on the table near her.
“Perhaps your eyes are too tired to read?”
“No,” she said, “I had forgotten they were there. I don’t care for reading.”
Her eyes left the books and travelled back to the other end of the large ornate room, overfilled with richly gilt Empire furniture.
I turned and followed her rapt gaze.
There were half-a-dozen yellow chrysanthemums in a dull green jar on a Buhl chiffonier. The slanting November sunshine fell on them, and threw against the white wall a shadow of them. It was a shadow transfigured, intricate yet vague, mysterious, beautiful exceedingly.
I should never have noticed it if she had not looked at it with such intentness. For a moment I saw it with her eyes. I was touched; I hardly knew why. All the apathy was gone from her face. There was passion in it. She looked entirely exhausted, and yet it was the first time I had seen her really alive.
The sunshine went out suddenly, and she sighed.