"Will you walk in, sir?"
Soames walked in. He noted mechanically that all was still silvery,
and that the upright piano was of satinwood. She had risen and stood
recoiled against it; her hand, placed on the keys as if groping for
support, had struck a sudden discord, held for a moment, and released.
The light from the shaded piano-candle fell on her neck, leaving her
face rather in shadow. She was in a black evening dress, with a sort of
mantilla over her shoulders--he did not remember ever having seen her in
black, and the thought passed through him: 'She dresses even when she's
alone.'
"You!" he heard her whisper.
Many times Soames had rehearsed this scene in fancy. Rehearsal served
him not at all. He simply could not speak. He had never thought that
the sight of this woman whom he had once so passionately desired, so
completely owned, and whom he had not seen for twelve years, could
affect him in this way. He had imagined himself speaking and acting,
half as man of business, half as judge. And now it was as if he were
in the presence not of a mere woman and erring wife, but of some force,
subtle and elusive as atmosphere itself within him and outside. A kind
of defensive irony welled up in him.
"Yes, it's a queer visit! I hope you're well."
"Thank you. Will you sit down?"
She had moved away from the piano, and gone over to a window-seat,
sinking on to it, with her hands clasped in her lap. Light fell on her
there, so that Soames could see her face, eyes, hair, strangely as he
remembered them, strangely beautiful.
He sat down on the edge of a satinwood chair, upholstered with
silver-coloured stuff, close to where he was standing.
"You have not changed," he said.
"No? What have you come for?"
"To discuss things."
"I have heard what you want from your cousin."
"Well?"
"I am willing. I have always been."
The sound of her voice, reserved and close, the sight of her figure
watchfully poised, defensive, was helping him now. A thousand memories
of her, ever on the watch against him, stirred, and....
"Perhaps you will be good enough, then, to give me information on which
I can act. The law must be complied with."
"I have none to give you that you don't know of."
"Twelve years! Do you suppose I can believe that?"
"I don't suppose you will believe anything I say; but it's the truth."
Soames looked at her hard. He had said that she had not changed; now he
perceived that she had. Not in face, except that it was more beautiful;
not in form, except that it was a little fuller--no! She had changed
spiritually. There was more of her, as it were, something of activity
and daring, where there had been sheer passive resistance. 'Ah!' he
thought, 'that's her independent income! Confound Uncle Jolyon!'