He threw out his hand and bowed—something in the way of a shop-walker. She walked into the room, without another word of protest.
He went out again, putting his face back in his usual queer way, to throw at her the words:
“I’ll be back in half a jiff. I’ll just put on my slippers and get my alpaca jacket.”
When he came in again, she was sitting bolt upright on the lounge; she had not even turned up her veil, nor unbuttoned her long gloves.
“Take off your things,” he said with ghastly jocularity. “Make yourself at home, you know.”
Then he laughed nervously. It suddenly dawned on her that he was in a state of great tremor. His jocular tone, his silly, vulgar words—everything of him—jarred terribly. She reproached herself, condemned herself again for that hideous evening of frolic at a third-rate music-hall with such a creature.
“I’ll keep my things on,” she said firmly. “Sometimes these summer nights are cold. It is going to rain.”
He came and sat on the other end of the lounge, and stared at her with his unpleasant, expressionless eyes. He crossed first one leg and then the other; he stroked and tugged at the weakly growing hair on his face.
“If you’ve anything to say,” she said crisply, “say it. It’s twenty past twelve.”
“I’ve all night to say it in—he won’t come home.”