The rain
had started, and its drip on the roof was like the sound of water-
falls: he changed, washed, took up a newspaper. The maid entered and
announced that tea was ready.
His wife--tall, slim, beautiful, and strange--was standing by the
window, her back to him, a book in her hand; a tumbler was on the
window-sill close beside her. She did not turn round as he entered,
merely murmuring: "Have some tea."
The electric light gave a brilliant glow. The freshly varnished
woodwork smelt of polish. She did not say another word, but returned
to her book, her delicate fingers turning over the leaves as,
standing with bent head, she read.
"Are you going out this evening, Anna?" he asked.
"Eh? No, I am staying in."
"Is there anyone coming?"
"Eh? No, nobody. Are _you_ going out?"
"I am not sure. I am going to-morrow on Detachment duty for a week."
"Eh? Oh yes, on Detachment."
Always the same! No interest in him; indifferent, absorbed in other
things. How he longed to stay and talk to her, on and on, of
everything; of the utter impossibility of life without love or
sympathy, of the intensity of his own love, and the melancholy of his
evenings. But he was silent.
"Is Asya asleep?" he inquired at last.
"Yes, she is asleep."
A nickel tea-pot and a solitary tumbler stood on the table with its
white cloth falling in straight folds.
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