He
fancied she was waiting for him to "give himself away" by saying
something, no matter what. Having, however, a talent for silence without
embarrassment, he made use of it, knowing that by means of it he could
force her to resume.
He was not at ease; he was not without misgiving. It had been far from
his expectation to see her on this errand, or, for the matter of that,
on any errand at all. It had never occurred to him that Guion could
speak to her of a transaction so private, so secret, as that proposed
between them. Since, then, his partner in the undertaking had been
foolish, Davenant felt the necessity on his side of being doubly
discreet. Moreover, he was intuitive enough to feel her antipathy toward
him on purely general grounds. "I'm not her sort," was the summing-up of
her sentiments he made for himself. He could not wholly see why he
excited her dislike since, beyond a moment of idiotic presumption long
ago, he had never done her any harm.
He fancied that his personal appearance, as much as anything, was
displeasing to her fastidiousness. He was so big, so awkward; his hands
and feet were so clumsy. A little more and he would have been ungainly;
perhaps she considered him ungainly as it was.
Pages:
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151