I was several times on the point of begging her to
have more consideration for him, even of suggesting that this kind of
behavior, particularly before a comparative stranger like me, was very poor
taste. But there was something elusive about Mrs. Oke, which made it next
to impossible to speak seriously with her; and besides, I was by no means
sure that any interference on my part would not merely animate her
perversity.
One evening a curious incident took place. We had just sat down to dinner,
the Okes, the theatrical cousin, who was down for a couple of days, and
three or four neighbours. It was dusk, and the yellow light of the candles
mingled charmingly with the greyness of the evening. Mrs. Oke was not well,
and had been remarkably quiet all day, more diaphanous, strange, and
far-away than ever; and her husband seemed to have felt a sudden return of
tenderness, almost of compassion, for this delicate, fragile creature. We
had been talking of quite indifferent matters, when I saw Mr. Oke suddenly
turn very white, and look fixedly for a moment at the window opposite to
his seat.
"Who's that fellow looking in at the window, and making signs to you,
Alice? Damn his impudence!" he cried, and jumping up, ran to the window,
opened it, and passed out into the twilight.
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