It had grown chilly in the room, and Ludowika had an India cashmere
shawl about her shoulders. The sombre garnets and blues hid the tinsel
gaiety of her gown and her bare shoulders. She appeared older than he
had ever seen her before. Her face, carefully studied, showed no trace
of beauty; her eyes were heavy, her lips dark; any efforts of animation
were suspended. She showed completely the effect of her life in courts
and a careless prodigality of hours and emotions. Howat, seeing all
this, felt only a fresh accession of his hunger for her; she was far
more compelling than when romantically viewed as a moon.

He sat with his chin propped on a palm; she was rigidly upright with her
arms at her sides; Felix Winscombe moved higher on the pillows. His eyes
glittered in a head like a modelling in clay; his arms stirred
ceaselessly with weaving fingers. Howat could almost feel Ludowika's
hatred striking at him across the bed. He smiled at her, and she faced
him with an expression of stony unresponse. He thought luxuriantly of
her in his arms, with the rain beating on the store house roof; he
caught the odours of the damp, heaped merchandise, the distant clamour
in the casting shed. He had a brutal impulse to lean forward and remind
her of what had occurred, of the fact that she was his; he wanted to
fling it against her present detachment, to mock her with it. Then he
would crush her against his heart. Felix Winscombe raised up on an
elbow, distorting the row of sanguinary Indians.

Ludowika moved to the edge of the bed, and put a firm, graceful arm
about him. A grey shadow of pain fell on Mr. Winscombe's features. The
silence was absolute. He seemed to be waiting in an attitude of mingled
dread and resolution. He whispered an unintelligible period, the pain on
his face sharpened, and he released himself from Ludowika's support. She
sank back on her chair, gazing at her husband with wide, concerned eyes.