She was unreasonably annoyed, therefore, when he came boldly into
her chamber without even knocking, for all the world like a
welcome lover. To conceal her irritation, she kept her face turned
from him and continued fanning herself listlessly. She was
reclining in a wicker chair, lightly clad in a filmy silk
negligee, which she mechanically drew closer.
"Rather late for good-nights," she said, coldly.
"I've just come from Anthony's supper-party."
His voice made her look round sharply. She saw that his linen,
ordinarily stiff and immaculate, was sodden and crumpled, his
collar limp, his forehead glistening with drops of moisture. She
could not remember ever having seen him in such a state. His
appearance affected her queerly. In him this dishevelment was
shocking.
"What ails you, Stephen?" she cried. "Have you been drinking?"
"No. I didn't drink much. I brought you something."
He took the loving-cup from its flannel bag and set it upon the
table. "They gave me this."
"It is very pretty, though I don't care for such things."
"And this too." He tossed the watch with its enamelled monogram
into her lap.
"Ah! That's very handsome."
"Yes, I thought you'd like it; it's from Anthony." He laughed,
then shuddered, as though a cold wind had bitten through his
sodden garments.
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