He felt a gross,
coarse brute as he stumbled, coming across the dark floor to her.
"My God," he cried in his heart, "put everything right now--let this make
everything right."
His big square body flung huge fantastic shadows upon the wall, but he
looked, as he faced her, like a boy who had come to his master to confess
some crime.
Apparently she was reassured now, for she took off her necklace and moved
about the things on her table as though to show him that she was on the
point of undressing.
"Well, Peter, what is it?" she said.
"I've come--Clare--just a moment--I want a talk."
"But it's late, I'm tired--won't some other time do?"
"No, I want it now."
"What is it?"
She was looking into the glass as she spoke to him.
He pulled a little chair over to her and sat forward so that his knees
nearly touched her thin black dress. He put out his big hand and caught one
of her little ones; he thought for a moment that she was going to
resist--then it lay there cold as ice.
"Clare--darling--look here, everything's been wrong with both of us--for
ages. And I've come--I've come--because I know it's been very largely my
fault. And I've come to say that everything will be different now and I
want you to let things--be--as they were before--"
For a moment he fancied that he saw a light leap into her eyes; he felt her
hand tremble for a moment in his.
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