'The most beautiful and the best,' he said severely.
'Me?'
'Yes. Here's the soup.'
She drank it, looking at him between the spoonfuls. This was the man
who had talked to her by the Monks' Pool. Here was the same detachment
he had shown then, and though the act of taking soup was not poetical,
though the band blared and the place shone with many lights, she was
taken back to that night among the trees, with the water lying darkly
at her feet, keeping its own secrets; with the ducks quacking sleepily
and unseen, and the water rats diving with a silken splash.
She seemed to be recovering something she had lost because she had
disregarded it, something she wanted, not for use but for the sake of
possessing and sometimes looking at it.
Sternly she tried not to think of Francis Sales, who had deserted her.
She might have known he would desert her. He had looked at Aunt Rose
and she had seen him weaken, yet he had promised. He was that kind of
man: he could not say no to her face, but he left her in this city,
all alone.
Her lips trembled; she steadied them with difficulty. She was
determined not to honour him with so much as a memory or a regret, but
there came forbidden recollections of the dance, of the terrace, and
of her hands in his. She closed her eyes and a tremor, delicious,
horrible, ran through her body. She felt the strength of those brown,
muscular hands and she was assailed by the odour of wind and tobacco
that clung to him.
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