talk about it, pleasantly aware of her own patience set in relief by Elsie’s stupidity. While she was in the kitchen the front door closed; it was Kit coming in. She ordered some fresh tea for him—he was late again—and went to her room. She intended to be lying down when Peggy came in; genuinely, she had a slight headache. But after she had rested a little while with eau de cologne and a cachet faivre, she felt restless, and tidying herself, went into the sitting room.
Kit had finished his tea, and was reading a new book he had bought about diseases of the heart; a forbidding looking thing, so heavy that he had to hold it flat on his knees. He looked up as she came in, smiled, said abstractedly, “’Lo, Janie, meeting go off well?” and went on reading.
On the table was the novel he had changed for her at the library. She picked it up and sat down with it, then looked at him again. With an uncomfortable jar she perceived that he was quite oblivious of her. She had grown used to his pretending not to pay much attention when she came into a room, but it had never deceived her. She had always felt the shift of his concentration from what he had been doing, his expectation silently surrounding her. It had given a sense of importance and drama to all her small movements, to the first trivial remark she made. Often she had thought how irritating it was to be focussed on like this; but the absence of it was quite surprisingly disagreeable. She opened her book, read the title page without taking it in, and looked at him again.
Suddenly she saw him as one sees people after an absence: imperceptible day-to-day changes accumulated themselves in a single impression. She remembered how Timmie’s face had made her think of his. Everything of which it had reminded her was gone. How long had it been happening? He was not an anxious boy, but a man whose curiously fair hair only emphasized by contrast the decision of his face. There had been, in repose, a loose gawkiness about his wrists and ankles that disappeared when he moved. Now she wondered what had made her imagine it. He was chewing on the stem of an empty pipe, absorbed in a page of diagrams. Presently he got out a pencil and made a note, or some small addition, to one of them. He might as well have been alone in the room.
She turned to the middle of the novel, tasting it here and there. It was a pretty, sentimental tale, pleasant enough but, she knew, a thing he would never dream of reading himself. She had often reproved him for bringing her back books which had excited him but which she thought heavy. Yet to realize that he must have chosen this one without interest, as the kind of thing she would be likely to like, made her feel neglected.
Turning back to the first chapter, she tried to read. It was, in fact, a book she might very well have chosen in default of something better for herself; but, perhaps for this very reason, it irritated her. There was a tickle in her throat, and she coughed, rather more loudly than its relief demanded. He did not notice. To impress him that the cough had happened she coughed again.
He looked up, half his mind transparently still in the book. “Not caught a cold, have you?” he asked.
“Not a really bad one.” She took out the cologne handkerchief unobtrusively and patted her nose. “I think it must have been when I got wet yesterday. It’s only on my chest a little.”
“If it’s on your chest you must look after it.” He put his book aside, fishing an envelope out of his pocket to mark the place. (Once, she thought, he would not have waited to do that.) In a detached businesslike way he got out a thermometer, uncased it, shook it down, and slipped it into her mouth. “No, under your tongue.” His hand closed firmly and easily on her wrist. She remembered from earlier times the careful tension of his touch. “Cheer up,” he said. “You’re not going to be ill.” He held her wrist lightly, waiting for her pulse to
Kit had finished his tea, and was reading a new book he had bought about diseases of the heart; a forbidding looking thing, so heavy that he had to hold it flat on his knees. He looked up as she came in, smiled, said abstractedly, “’Lo, Janie, meeting go off well?” and went on reading.
On the table was the novel he had changed for her at the library. She picked it up and sat down with it, then looked at him again. With an uncomfortable jar she perceived that he was quite oblivious of her. She had grown used to his pretending not to pay much attention when she came into a room, but it had never deceived her. She had always felt the shift of his concentration from what he had been doing, his expectation silently surrounding her. It had given a sense of importance and drama to all her small movements, to the first trivial remark she made. Often she had thought how irritating it was to be focussed on like this; but the absence of it was quite surprisingly disagreeable. She opened her book, read the title page without taking it in, and looked at him again.
Suddenly she saw him as one sees people after an absence: imperceptible day-to-day changes accumulated themselves in a single impression. She remembered how Timmie’s face had made her think of his. Everything of which it had reminded her was gone. How long had it been happening? He was not an anxious boy, but a man whose curiously fair hair only emphasized by contrast the decision of his face. There had been, in repose, a loose gawkiness about his wrists and ankles that disappeared when he moved. Now she wondered what had made her imagine it. He was chewing on the stem of an empty pipe, absorbed in a page of diagrams. Presently he got out a pencil and made a note, or some small addition, to one of them. He might as well have been alone in the room.
She turned to the middle of the novel, tasting it here and there. It was a pretty, sentimental tale, pleasant enough but, she knew, a thing he would never dream of reading himself. She had often reproved him for bringing her back books which had excited him but which she thought heavy. Yet to realize that he must have chosen this one without interest, as the kind of thing she would be likely to like, made her feel neglected.
Turning back to the first chapter, she tried to read. It was, in fact, a book she might very well have chosen in default of something better for herself; but, perhaps for this very reason, it irritated her. There was a tickle in her throat, and she coughed, rather more loudly than its relief demanded. He did not notice. To impress him that the cough had happened she coughed again.
He looked up, half his mind transparently still in the book. “Not caught a cold, have you?” he asked.
“Not a really bad one.” She took out the cologne handkerchief unobtrusively and patted her nose. “I think it must have been when I got wet yesterday. It’s only on my chest a little.”
“If it’s on your chest you must look after it.” He put his book aside, fishing an envelope out of his pocket to mark the place. (Once, she thought, he would not have waited to do that.) In a detached businesslike way he got out a thermometer, uncased it, shook it down, and slipped it into her mouth. “No, under your tongue.” His hand closed firmly and easily on her wrist. She remembered from earlier times the careful tension of his touch. “Cheer up,” he said. “You’re not going to be ill.” He held her wrist lightly, waiting for her pulse to
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