He wondered at his own calmness. He didn’t feel in the least angry—but he knew that somewhere in him there was a lot of anger. And he tried, consciously, to level away even the possibility of anger within him. “This is where sense comes in,” he thought. He was so surprised—at this Virginia! She seemed to want to insult. Her whole manner.... Queer! So she had been thinking, too—and away from him! She hadn’t given him a chance—writing that letter, and then, because he’d stopped away to think.... He hadn’t dreamt that her eyes could look at him like this, so curiously livid. But, of course, she was still weak—after that awful pain. And she had thought herself into a feverish state. He “got on her nerves.” ...
Virginia, standing by a little table, was cutting the pages of a French novel. Often, when her mind was absent, Virginia would cut the pages of a French novel....
“I believe you buy them only for that purpose,” Ivor suddenly said.
Virginia smiled a little, dimly.
“George rang up,” she said, “to say he would come in for a few minutes about five.”
“Ah,” said Ivor. It was nearly five now, he saw. He almost said that this wasn’t perhaps the most opportune moment for Tarlyon to call, but that would only make things worse.
He didn’t know what to say. Dinner at the Mont Agel, or going away to Galway, as they had finally arranged, were about the only things he could talk about now, and they would seem a little forced, he thought. Nothing would fit this stupid moment.... He didn’t want to make things worse; and he didn’t want to let her make him angry, certainly not that! If both of them.... He didn’t understand this Virginia. There’s a queer caddishness about her that I can’t understand, he thought. He felt terribly flat.... He stood by the open window and stared out at the wide, rain-soaked square and the thick plesaunce of trees that shone and smelled of rain. The leaves looked delicious, in a rich and rather beastly way, like green velvet shot with bronze. Nice to bury one’s face in wet leaves.... It was awfully close, and spitting again. He held the French windows as far open as they would go. The square was very still, expecting thunder maybe.... She’s thinking away from me, he thought. And I can’t stop her, somehow. She won’t let me. But I must.... He, no matter how angry he might be with her, was always thinking towards her. “Why don’t you ever push one back?” Well, why should he? He knew what he wanted ... one must live cleanly.... And suddenly he swung round into the room. She was not looking at him.
“But this is absurd!” he said violently to the bent head, to the golden hair. He passionately wanted to put this silly thing right—it was so silly! What right had she to write him that letter and then look queer just because he hadn’t run to agree with her!
As she stood at the little table, her face was bent to it, to the book her paper-knife was absently cutting; and as she stood, she raised her face to his cry, and looked at him; she just looked, and her eyes were quite expressionless, as though she was not there. Oh, that unearthly look! But he didn’t care: he had suddenly felt his strength.
“This is absurd,” he repeated firmly, but almost gaily; and he took quick strides towards her. He didn’t know what he was going to do, how he would force her. But he felt his strength.