He had
liked that tribute too much to contradict it, but Rose Mallett was
right: whoever had been the promoter of this business, it was not fair
to Henrietta, and the thought of Rose, so white and straight, was like
wind after a sultry day. She was like a church, he thought; a dim
church with tall pillars losing themselves in the loftiness of the
roof; yes, that was what was the matter with her: she was cold, but
there was no one like her, you could not forget her even in the warmth
of Henrietta's presence. One way and another, these Malletts tortured
him.
He walked home, trying to find some way out of this maze of promises
to Henrietta and of self-reproach, and his mental wanderings were
interrupted by an unwelcome request from the nurse that he should go
at once to Mrs. Sales. She seemed, the woman warned him, to be very
much excited: would he please be careful? She must not have another
heart attack.
As he entered the room, it seemed to him that he had been treading on
egg-shells all his life, but a sudden pity swept him at the sight of
his wife, very weak from the pain of the night before last, yet
intensely, almost viciously alive. He wished he had not gone to the
Battys' ball; it had upset her and done him no good. If it had not
been for that walk on the terrace--
He shut the door gently and stood by her. 'Are you in pain?' he asked.
He felt remorsefully that he did not know how to treat her; he had not
love enough, yet with all his heart he wanted to be kind.
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