To go back to the old way, to the tribute she enforced to feed her inordinate vanity, to the old hypocrisy of their relationship, to live again the old lie, was impossible.
He got up. He would not try to buy himself happiness at the cost of turning her adrift. But he must, some way, buy his self-respect.
He heard her then, on the staircase, that soft rustle which, it seemed to him, had rasped the silk of his nerves all their years together with its insistence on her dainty helplessness, her femininity, her right to protection. The tap of her high heels came closer. He drew a long breath and turned, determinedly smiling, to face the door.
Almost at once he saw that she was frightened. She had taken pains to look her best—but then she always did that. She was rouged to the eyes, and the floating white chiffon of her negligee gave to her slim body the illusion of youth, that last illusion to which she so desperately clung. But—she was frightened.
She stood in the doorway, one hand holding aside the heavy velvet curtain, and looked at him with wide, penciled eyes.
“Clay?”
“Yes. Come in. Shall I have Buckham light a fire?”
She came in, slowly.
“Do you suppose that cable is reliable?”
“I should think so.”