as not really fifteen years older than herself, and she not
really a part of his collection, of all the admirable appointments of
his home; but a companion spirit to one who wanted a companion badly.
In this agitation of his soul he could keep still no more than he could
last night in the agitation of his senses; and he wandered into the
dining-room. A dainty supper was set out there, sandwiches, and cake,
whisky and the cigarettes--even an early peach. Mr. Bosengate looked at
this peach with sorrow rather than disgust. The perfection of it was of
a piece with all that had gone before this new and sudden feeling. Its
delicious bloom seemed to heighten his perception of the hedge around
him, that hedge of the things he so enjoyed, carefully planted and
tended these many years. He passed it by uneaten, and went to the
window. Out there all was darkening, the fountain, the lime tree, the
flower-beds, and the fields below, with the Jersey cows who would
come to your call; darkening slowly, losing form, blurring into soft
blackness, vanishing, but there none the less--all there--the hedge of
his possessions. He heard the door of the drawing-room open, the voices
of his wife and the governess in the hall, going up to bed. If only they
didn't look in here! If only! The voices ceased. He was safe now--had
but to follow in a few minutes, to make sure of Kathleen alone. He
turned round and stared down the length of the dark dining-room, over
the rosewood table, to where in the mirror above the sideboard at the
far end, his figure bathed, a stain, a mere blurred shadow; he made his
way down to it along the table edge, and stood before himself as close
as he could get. His throat and the roof of his mouth felt dry with
nervousness; he put out his finger and touched his face in the glass.
'You're an ass!' he thought. 'Pull yourself together, and get it over.
She will see; of course she will!' He swallowed, smoothed his moustache,
and walked out. Going up the stairs, his heart beat painfully; but he
was in for it now, and marched straight into her room. Dressed only in a
loose blue wrapper, she was brushing her dark hair before the glass. Mr.
Bosengate went up to her and stood there silent, looking down. The words
he had thought of were like a swarm of bees buzzing in his head, yet not
one would fly from between his lips. His wife went on brushing her hair
under the light which shone on her polished elbows. She looked up at him
from be