“I have invited Cornelia,” she said to David. “Will you call for her and bring her?”
David had not seen Cornelia more than twice in the past three months. He had not seen her once of his own initiative. When she asked him to come, he obeyed. He always would. Despite himself, he had the feeling for her that a young man might have for a maiden aunt: he was deeply, even ideally fond of her, but she seemed to live in another world, there was no way of contact nor of expression for his fondness.
Since he was living alone, he had not seen her at all.
She greeted him, when he came, as usual, cordially, with no hint of the empty months without him. Her eyes no longer searched him with hot, comfortless inquiries. It was as if she had done everything she could to be acceptable to David. She was quite ready.
“Just a minute, while I throw on my cloak. It’s very warm, isn’t it? It isn’t going to rain?”
“I don’t think so. It’s a glorious night.”
“A glorious night? Do you think we have time to walk a little?”
He watched her finally settling her hair before the mirror. She was “dressed-up” in a slim white gown. She was ugly. Her head outweighed her body: it gave her a gaunt and naked look in her white dress. The yellow skin of her face broke the paltry shimmer of her gown into green and gray.
“I’m afraid,” said David, “we might be late if we walked.”
“Very well.” She came up to him and smiled. “Come.” She opened the door.