But he didn't
move; not a sound broke the deep silence. When she turned round at
last, she saw him sitting on the sofa, his cheeks wet with tears. She
felt a strong impulse to jump up, take his head between her hands and
kiss him as she had done in days gone by, but she remained where she
was, immovable, with downcast eyes.
He held a cigar between his thumb and first finger. When the song was
finished, he bit off the end and struck a match.
"Thank you, Lily," he said, puffing at his cigar, "will you have your
coffee now?"
They drank their coffee, talked of summer holidays in general and
suggested two or three places where they might go next summer. But
their conversation languished and they repeated themselves.
At last he yawned openly and said: "I'm off to bed."
"I'm going, too," she said, getting up. "But I'll get a breath of
fresh air first, on the balcony."
He went into the bed-room. She lingered for a few moments in the
dining-room, and then talked to the landlady for about half an hour of
spring-onions and woollen underwear.
When the landlady had left her she went into the bedroom and stood for
a few minutes at the door, listening. No sound came from within. His
boots stood in the corridor.
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