Under the blow of the chandelier a delicate Pembroke table ... book and a glass of whisky.
—Under my arms, pressing against my back, a high arched Windsor chair.
In the break of her hip, standing, a Hepple—white desk.
—We have no furniture like this at home!
She spoke. He peered into the form of her words. His eyes took the gloss of the subtle table, it was one with her words’ accent. Futile words ... grammatical, well-ordered. A subtle table, and beyond a virulent huge sideboard. A faint quaint accent in her pointless words curling like heat of hidden flame above the table, against the sideboard: whispers in how she spoke, like these glowing poems in wood, of a day distant from his New York where there had been leisure and when from the dung of human misery America grew flowers.
A quiet pain in the table and her words ... a distant pain. He did not put his immediate question.
She felt his pause; in it drew up her chair. She sat he thought with grace athwart him at the table. The whisky glass was gone, he had not noticed her hide it. The book was there with her hand. Black little book. Bible! He felt her feeling him feel her. Now she was silent.
They were silent upon each other. Heavily.
His brow twitched.—Let me see her! She was cold and helpless. He understood he could not understand. She seemed a chaste woman with burnt eyes. She drew him.