One of them
deliberately approached him from a side-street. Though taller and
fuller, with heightened colour, frizzy hair, and a hat with feathers;
she was the image of the little model--the same shape of face, broad
cheek-bones, mouth a little open; the same flower-coloured eyes and
short black lashes, all coarsened and accentuated as Art coarsens and
accentuates the lines of life. Looking boldly into Hilary's startled
face, she laughed. Hilary winced and walked on quickly.
He reached home at half-past ten. The lamp was burning in Mr. Stone's
room, and his window was, as usual, open; that which was not usual,
however, was a light in Hilary's own bedroom. He went gently up. Through
the door-ajar-he saw, to his surprise, the figure of his wife. She was
reclining in a chair, her elbows on its arms, the tips of her fingers
pressed together. Her face, with its dark hair, vivid colouring, and
sharp lines, was touched with shadows, her head turned as though towards
somebody beside her; her neck gleamed white. So--motionless, dimly
seen--she was like a woman sitting alongside her own life, scrutinising,
criticising, watching it live, taking no part in it. Hilary wondered
whether to go in or slip away from his strange visitor.
"Ah! it's you," she said.
Hilary approached her. For all her mocking of her own charms, this wife
of his was strangely graceful.
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