“I have had a trying evening and I need rest. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. It doesn't look bad, does it?" "Mercy, no! That wasn't the thought. ” Annabel looked intently into her glass. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes.
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