"Oh! I don't know, I don't know!"
She walked away to the looking-glass over the chimneypiece, and took off her gloves and veil. She wanted to gain time. Hardy followed her to the opposite side of the fireplace.
"Whatever possessed you, Vincent, to grow that horrid beard?"
He had forgotten the change in his personal appearance. He looked in the glass and was startled by his own reflection. Owing to the agony of the shock she had given him, his face was still grey and drawn. The poor fellow tried to smile, and that made matters worse.
"I daresay it was a nasty shock. Did it make you feel as if I was somebody else?"
"Oh no; it has not altered you much. It's not that. But—I hate beards, as you know."
There was silence. Hardy was struggling with the old stifling sensation in his heart. Emotion was bad for him.
"Is this all you've got to say to me, after being a year away?"
She looked at him, shook her head, and played with the ornaments on the mantel-board.
"Why can't you speak to me? Has anything happened? Is anybody dead?"