So Bertie was coming, coming this evening, in the November rain and
darkness. Isabel was agitated, racked with her old restlessness and
indecision. She had always suffered from this pain of doubt, just an
agonizing sense of uncertainty. It had begun to pass off, in the lethargy
of maternity. Now it returned, and she resented it. She struggled as
usual to maintain her calm, composed, friendly bearing, a sort of mask
she wore over all her body.

A woman had lighted a tall lamp beside the table, and spread the cloth.
The long dining-room was dim, with its elegant but rather severe pieces
of old furniture. Only the round table glowed softly under the light. It
had a rich, beautiful effect. The white cloth glistened and dropped its
heavy, pointed lace corners almost to the carpet, the china was old and
handsome, creamy-yellow, with a blotched pattern of harsh red and deep
blue, the cups large and bell-shaped, the teapot gallant. Isabel looked
at it with superficial appreciation.

Her nerves were hurting her. She looked automatically again at the high,
uncurtained windows. In the last dusk she could just perceive outside a
huge fir-tree swaying its boughs: it was as if she thought it rather
than saw it. The rain came flying on the window panes. Ah, why had she
no peace? These two men, why did they tear at her? Why did they not
come--why was there this suspense?

She sat in a lassitude that was really suspense and irritation. Maurice,
at least, might come in--there was nothing to keep him out. She rose to
her feet. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she glanced at
herself with a slight smile of recognition, as if she were an old friend
to herself. Her face was oval and calm, her nose a little arched. Her
neck made a beautiful line down to her shoulder. With hair knotted