"Mr. Morris Townsend."
This was what she heard, vaguely but recognisably articulated by the
domestic, while she hesitated. She had her back turned to the door
of the parlour, and for some moments she kept it turned, feeling that
he had come in. He had not spoken, however, and at last she faced
about. Then she saw a gentleman standing in the middle of the room,
from which her aunt had discreetly retired.
She would never have known him. He was forty-five years old, and his
figure was not that of the straight, slim young man she remembered.
But it was a very fine person, and a fair and lustrous beard,
spreading itself upon a well-presented chest, contributed to its
effect. After a moment Catherine recognised the upper half of the
face, which, though her visitor's clustering locks had grown thin,
was still remarkably handsome. He stood in a deeply deferential
attitude, with his eyes on her face. "I have ventured--I have
ventured," he said; and then he paused, looking about him, as if he
expected her to ask him to sit down. It was the old voice, but it
had not the old charm. Catherine, for a minute, was conscious of a
distinct determination not to invite him to take a seat. Why had he
come? It was wrong for him to come. Morris was embarrassed, but
Catherine gave him no help. It was not that she was glad of his
embarrassment; on the contrary, it excited all her own liabilities of
this kind, and gave her great pain.
Pages:
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254