But Trixy’s words have raised up a feeling in his heart about his wife which cannot fail to build up a wall of reserve and suspicion.
It is in the dusk of the evening when he returns after two days’ absence, but the firelight is bright enough to show him the gladness in Zai’s face as he enters the room. Lavater himself could not find any guile in it, but jealousy and suspicion know no reason.
“My darling! my darling!” she cries, throwing herself into his arms, and holding up her sweet lips for his kiss, but he puts her aside quietly, and, amazed at his manner, she stands a little apart.
“What are you doing in the dark here?” he asks, in a cold, cutting voice. “Dreaming of the old days?”
“I don’t understand what ails you!” she falters. “I was sitting here, wondering when you would come back, for it has been so dull, so miserable without you! but now you have come back, you are so strange, Delaval!”
“Light those candles,” he orders abruptly.
She goes up to the mantel-piece and obeys him.
The tapers shine down full on her chesnut hair, her pure sweet face, her pathetic grey eyes.
“Now I can see you,” he says curtly, inwardly moved by her exceeding fairness, but outwardly cold and stern. “Well, why don’t you ask for news of Trixy?”
“I forgot about her,” she answers gently. “I was thinking about you.”