He fumbled nervously as he dressed himself, in a state almost of
childishness. He disliked the Scotch accent in Bertie's speech, and the
slight response it found on Isabel's tongue. He disliked the slight purr
of complacency in the Scottish speech. He disliked intensely the glib way
in which Isabel spoke of their happiness and nearness. It made him
recoil. He was fretful and beside himself like a child, he had almost a
childish nostalgia to be included in the life circle. And at the same
time he was a man, dark and powerful and infuriated by his own weakness.
By some fatal flaw, he could not be by himself, he had to depend on the
support of another. And this very dependence enraged him. He hated Bertie
Reid, and at the same time he knew the hatred was nonsense, he knew it
was the outcome of his own weakness.

He went downstairs. Isabel was alone in the dining-room. She watched him
enter, head erect, his feet tentative. He looked so strong-blooded and
healthy, and, at the same time, cancelled. Cancelled--that was the word
that flew across her mind. Perhaps it was his scars suggested it.

'You heard Bertie come, Maurice?' she said.

'Yes--isn't he here?'

'He's in his room. He looks very thin and worn.'

'I suppose he works himself to death.'

A woman came in with a tray--and after a few minutes Bertie came down. He
was a little dark man, with a very big forehead, thin, wispy hair, and
sad, large eyes. His expression was inordinately sad--almost funny. He
had odd, short legs.