He
turned round and stared down the length of the dark dining-room, over
the rosewood table, to where in the mirror above the sideboard at the
far end, his figure bathed, a stain, a mere blurred shadow; he made his
way down to it along the table edge, and stood before himself as close
as he could get. His throat and the roof of his mouth felt dry with
nervousness; he put out his finger and touched his face in the glass.
'You're an ass!' he thought. 'Pull yourself together, and get it over.
She will see; of course she will!' He swallowed, smoothed his moustache,
and walked out. Going up the stairs, his heart beat painfully; but he
was in for it now, and marched straight into her room. Dressed only in a
loose blue wrapper, she was brushing her dark hair before the glass. Mr.
Bosengate went up to her and stood there silent, looking down. The words
he had thought of were like a swarm of bees buzzing in his head, yet not
one would fly from between his lips. His wife went on brushing her hair
under the light which shone on her polished elbows. She looked up at him
from beneath one lifted eyebrow.
"Well, dear--tired?"
With a sort of vehemence the single word "No" passed out.
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