I don't know whether this same vision was in his own eyes; at all
events it didn't prevent his saying suddenly, as he looked at his watch,
that I must excuse him--he should have to go back to the club. He would
return in half an hour--or in less. He walked away and I sat there
alone, conscious, on the dark dismantled simplified scene, in the deep
silence that rests on American towns during the hot season--there was now
and then a far cry or a plash in the water, and at intervals the tinkle
of the bells of the horse-cars on the long bridge, slow in the
suffocating night--of the strange influence, half-sweet, half-sad, that
abides in houses uninhabited or about to become so, in places muffled and
bereaved, where the unheeded sofas and patient belittered tables seem
(like the disconcerted dogs, to whom everything is alike sinister) to
recognise the eve of a journey.
After a while I heard the sound of voices, of steps, the rustle of
dresses, and I looked round, supposing these things to denote the return
of Mrs. Nettlepoint and her handmaiden with the refection prepared for
her son. What I saw however was two other female forms, visitors
apparently just admitted, and now ushered into the room. They were not
announced--the servant turned her back on them and rambled off to our
hostess.
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