His face was intolerable. Heavy; fixed. Not insolent, but simply gazing over the heads of all things and created beings, into a word too distant for them to enter. . . . And yet it seemed to her, since he was so clumsy and worn out, almost not sporting to persecute him. It was like whipping a dying bulldog. . . .
She sank back into her chair with a movement almost of discouragement. She said:
"He's gone into the hotel. . . . "
Perowne lurched agitatedly forward in his chair. He exclaimed that he was going. Then he sank discouragedly back again:
"No, I'm not," he said, "I'm probably much safer here. I might run against him going out."
"You've realized that my petticoats protect you," Sylvia said contemptuously. "Of course, Christopher would never hit anyone in my presence."
Major Perowne was interrupting her by asking:
"What's he going to do? What's he doing in the hotel?"
Mrs. Tietjens said:
"Guess!" She added: "What would you do in similar circumstances?"
"Go and wreck your bedroom," Perowne answered with promptitude. "It's what I did when I found you had left Yssingueux."
Sylvia said:
"Ah, that was what the place was called."
Perowne groaned:
"You're callous," he said. "There's no other word for it. Callous. That's what you are."
Sylvia asked absently why he called her callous at just that juncture. She was imagining Christopher stumping clumsily along the hotel corridor looking at
