Mrs. Grove's head was in
shadow. There was a stir at the door, and William Grove entered. He
was, he told Lee civilly, glad that Adamson had been of use. "I walk
whenever it's possible," he proceeded; "but that way you wouldn't have
reached Beaver Street yet. Nothing to drink, thanks, Savina, but a
cigarette--" Lee Randon reached forward with the silver box and,
inadvertently, he pressed into Mrs. Grove's knee. He heard a thin
clatter, there was a minute hot splash on his hand, and he realized
that she had dropped her spoon. She sat rigidly, half turned toward the
light, with a face that shocked him: it was not merely pale, but white,
drawn and harsh, and her eyes, losing every vestige of ordinary
expression, stared at him in a set black intensity.
"I'm sorry," Lee Randon said mechanically, and he offered the cigarette
box to the other man; but, internally, he was consumed with anger. The
woman positively was a fool to mistake his awkwardness; he hadn't
supposed that anyone could be so super-sensitive and suspicious; and it
damaged his pride that, clearly, she should consider him capable of
such a juvenile proceeding. Lee rose and excused himself stiffly,
explaining that it was time for him to dress; and, in his room,
telephoning Fanny, he determined to leave New York, the Groves, as
early as possible in the morning.
Fanny responded from Eastlake in a tone of unending patience; nothing
he could do, her voice intimated, would exhaust her first consideration
of him; she wouldn't--how could she?--question the wisdom of his
decisions, even when they seemed, but, of course, only to her faulty
understanding, incomprehensible.
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