He was a man with rather sloping shoulders, but with heavy limbs,
powerful legs that seemed to know the earth. His head was small, usually
carried high and light. As he bent down to unfasten his gaiters and boots
he did not look blind. His hair was brown and crisp, his hands were
large, reddish, intelligent, the veins stood out in the wrists; and his
thighs and knees seemed massive. When he stood up his face and neck were
surcharged with blood, the veins stood out on his temples. She did not
look at his blindness.

Isabel was always glad when they had passed through the dividing door
into their own regions of repose and beauty. She was a little afraid of
him, out there in the animal grossness of the back. His bearing also
changed, as he smelt the familiar, indefinable odour that pervaded his
wife's surroundings, a delicate, refined scent, very faintly spicy.
Perhaps it came from the pot-pourri bowls.

He stood at the foot of the stairs, arrested, listening. She watched him,
and her heart sickened. He seemed to be listening to fate.

'He's not here yet,' he said. 'I'll go up and change.'

'Maurice,' she said, 'you're not wishing he wouldn't come, are you?'

'I couldn't quite say,' he answered. 'I feel myself rather on the _qui
vive_.'

'I can see you are,' she answered. And she reached up and kissed his
cheek. She saw his mouth relax into a slow smile.

'What are you laughing at?' she said roguishly.