At the top of the fourth flight of steps, Pierre found himself facing
a door that stood ajar. Beyond that door was Joan and he knew not what
experience of discovery, of explanation, of punishment. What he had
suffered since the night of his cruelty would be nothing to what he
might have to suffer now at the hands of the woman he had loved and
hurt. That she was incredibly changed he knew, what had happened to
change her he did not know. That she had suffered greatly was certain.
One could not look at the face of Jane West, even under its disguise
of paint and pencil, without a sharp realization of profound and
embittering experience. And, just as certainly, she had gone far ahead
of her husband in learning, in a certain sort of mental and social
development. Pierre was filled with doubt and with dread, with an
almost unbearable self-depreciation. And at the same time he was
filled with a nameless fear of what Joan might herself have become.
He stood with his hand on the knob of that half-opened door, bent his
head, and drew some deep, uneven breaths. He thought of Holliwell as
though the man were standing beside him. He stepped in quietly, shut
the door, and walked without hesitation down the passageway into the
little, sunny sitting-room. There, before the crackling, open fire,
sat Prosper Gael.
Prosper, it seemed, was alone in the small, silent place. He was
sitting on the middle of his spine, as usual, with his long, thin legs
stretched out before him and a veil of cigarette smoke before his
eyes. He turned his head idly, expecting, no doubt, to see the nurse.
Pierre, white and grim, stood looking down at him.
The older man recognized him at once, but he did not change his
position by a muscle, merely lounged there, his head against the side
of the cushioned chair, the brilliant, surprised gaze changing slowly
to amused contempt. His cigarette hung between the long fingers of one
hand, its blue spiral of smoke rising tranquilly into a bar of
sunshine from the window.
"The doctor told me to come up," said Pierre gravely. He was aware of
the insult of this stranger's attitude, but he was too deeply stirred,
too deeply suspenseful, to be irritated by it. He seemed to be moving
in some rare, disconnected atmosphere. "I have his permission to
see--to see Miss West, if she is willing to see me."
Prosper flicked off an ash with his little finger. "And you believe
that she is willing to see you, Pierre Landis?" he asked slowly.