He went downstairs. Isabel was alone in the dining–room. She watched him enter, head erect, his feet tentative. He looked so strong–blooded and healthy, and, at the same time, cancelled. Cancelled—that was the word that flew across her mind. Perhaps it was his scars suggested it.
'You heard Bertie come, Maurice?' she said.
'Yes—isn't he here?'
'He's in his room. He looks very thin and worn.'
'I suppose he works himself to death.'
A woman came in with a tray—and after a few minutes Bertie came down. He was a little dark man, with a very big forehead, thin, wispy hair, and sad, large eyes. His expression was inordinately sad—almost funny. He had odd, short legs.
Isabel watched him hesitate under the door, and glance nervously at her husband. Pervin heard him and turned.
'Here you are,
