‘What extraordinary people,’ she said to Matthew. ‘And how impressive! All the women look like dowager duchesses.’
‘Most of them are,’ he said, with a distant, surprising satisfaction in his tone.
‘Is that why you come here?’ she asked, teasing him.
He bridled in the most curious way, and cocked his bright blue eyes at her, complacent and prim.
‘Well, one likes to be among decent people; when one can,’ he said.
And the astonishing thing was that he was quite sincere. Anna became silent with astonishment. Food for consideration here, indeed.
After dinner they went to the theatre. Matthew had taken seats for a musical comedy; quite a popular show, but not the show of the moment. And the seats were quite good seats, but not the best. Fourth or fifth row of the stalls they were; one could see the stage pretty well. Anna, long accustomed to Lauretta’s lavishness in matters of this kind, was a little surprised. But in a dim, indeterminate way. The surprise was not strong enough to rise to the surface of her mind.
She hardly noticed the music, or the antics on the stage. She was tired and effaced. Things seemed dream-like to her. It was like a dream to be sitting in the hot, crowded theatre beside Matthew. It was queer to have him draw her attention to this or that. She tried to be polite and to take an interest. But her brain was drowsy.
All this time Matthew was reassuringly restrained. There was no sign of a physical advance, no return of the horrible, lewd smirk to his face. True, his sharp teeth flashed disquietingly now and then in her direction; but always under the chastening curb of the customary neat smile. She began to feel relieved.
But afterwards, back in the hotel, it was a different matter. As soon as the door was closed upon them, he kissed Anna on the cheek, putting his arms round her clumsily.
‘At last I’ve got you to myself,’ he said. ‘All to myself.’
With a strange, determined pressure, like the pull of a strong river current upon a swimmer, he tried to draw her down, on to his knee.
She twisted herself out of his grip, feeling weak and exhausted, as though she were really struggling against a river, and hurriedly began to talk about the theatre. The young man stirred uneasily, and stared in an unseeing way as he answered.
Their suite consisted of three rooms and a bathroom. A sitting-room with an uncomfortable, tightly-stuffed sofa and two plushy armchairs; then the bedroom opening out of it, and beyond that another room, very cramped and closet-like: but it had a bed in it. The bathroom was down a bit of a passage at the end.
They talked for a few minutes constrainedly. Someone had put some imitation flowers, carnations, in a ricketty silver vase on the table. The greenish table-cloth had a fringe of soft plush balls. There was an atmosphere of awkwardness and constraint. Matthew grew stiffer, his smile more meaningless, as the minutes passed, his voice became rather uneven.
‘Let’s go to bed now,’ he said. ‘It’s late. And I want to have you near me. Really to have you at last.’ His blue eyes stared with a kind of blank triumph at Anna. He stood up. ‘Come along, my dear. Come to bed.’
He opened the bedroom door. Behind him, she could see his pyjamas laid out on the bed beside her own things. It produced a fury of opposition in her, the sight of his folded pyjamas. A swift, inflexible decision formed in her mind. Matthew was watching her, waiting. She wanted to throw something at his round, complacent anticipatory head. She detested the sight of it. He stood there in the open doorway, watching her, his lips parting in the slightly lewd, smirking smile, as he waited for her to come to bed. And she had utterly decided against him. She would not go to bed with him; no, not for anything in this world. He looked as neat and brown and presentable as ever, he had still the rather attractive artlessness hanging about him. But his head had a ball-like inanity, which she so disliked, and the suggestive simper came slyly, indecently, at the ends of his mouth. He looked quite handsome; and yet there was that queer buttoned-up closeness, that insentience, that made him seem so non-human to her. He repelled her, thoroughly. And she loathed his complacency, his smirking, proprietary lewdness.
The seconds went past. Matthew began to move forward into the room. Anna suddenly sprang up and made a wild scurrying dash into the passage. He followed, trying to detain her; his head came plunging after her out into the passage.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, beginning to be roused again.
But Anna had locked herself into the bathroom. She giggled rather breathlessly, and gazed at her face in the glass, where a curious expression was reflected. A most curious change had come over her. Her colourless, frail, rather ethereal face now wore a bold, hard, brilliant look, derisive and vicious. And her grey-blue eyes had become harder and colder, smaller apparently. In her quiet gravity and her composure, Anna’s eyes would grow large with a deep, jewel-coloured stillness, like deep water. But now, in her excited aversion, they were small and shallow and stony. Her serenity, her delicate, grave aloofness — so unusual — had vanished. Her face was pinched and malicious, like a goblin-face.
Matthew came up and rattled the handle of the door. His blue eyes, with their untransparent glassiness, their non-luminousness, stared out resentfully at the closed door. A blind, angry spitefulness, rather stupid, came into them.
‘What is the matter with you?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. I’m going to have a bath,’ said Anna, from the other side of the door.
There was a pause, during which she continued to meet in the mirror the strange pair of goblin-eyes, steady with strange malice.
‘Don’t be long, then,’ he said at last, unseen by her. But his voice was complacent again, even indulgent. He was so sure of winning that he could afford to humour her.
She kept silence. His cocksureness made her furious. Staring into the mirror, she stood rigid and silent.
‘Don’t be too long,’ he repeated. And presently she heard his brisk footfalls — curiously heavy for a small-made man — retreating along the passage.
She smiled to herself, brightly malicious, in the narrow, old-fashioned bathroom. The clumsy metal taps reflected her face, which had taken on the queer goblin look. She undressed slowly, and had her bath, and prepared for the night, all with the bright, alien, vicious look on her face. And then, for a long time, she waited: quite motionless, with a very odd, sardonic expression. She wondered if Matthew would come back and speak to her again. But he did not. Evidently, in his cocksureness, he was content to wait, and humour her caprices.
Anna sat on the hard white chair, looked at the closed door, looked at her reflection in the glass, and smiled at it knowingly, with goblinish satisfaction. One would have said she was enjoying herself. Then she rose and opened the door quietly, looking down the passage; a short, dim, empty passage, with doors on either side, and Matthew waiting for her behind the door at the end. She shivered in repulsion, but still she went on smiling, as if enjoying it all. Then quietly she went out into the passage. She went into the bedroom and locked the door.
The other door, into the sitting-room, was still open. She could see two feet in their neat, squarish, patent-leather shoes planted on the floor beyond. The leather was starting to crack a little, in the creases. There was Matthew.
He had heard her movements, and looked up, smiling his anticipative satisfaction, rather ogreish in spite of his flat unreality. As though he licked his chops at her. The horrid part was that though he stared hungrily at Anna, he did not seem to see her at all, as an individual. She, personally, did not exist as far as he was concerned; he had reduced her to a sort of extension of himself. He missed her out completely. And now his blue eyes met hers with a gleam of complacent anticipation — self-congratulatory, it appeared — as if he prided himself on his rights over her. And he was going to exercise them, too. Oh yes, he meant to exact his husband’s pound of flesh. There was something a bit pasha-like in his attitude towards her. The age-old, man-to-woman tyrannous condescension. He began to approach her with his prancing gait. But she slammed the door in his face, shutting him out, and turned the key on him. Just as the door closed, she saw the death of his neat smile, and the ugly, spiteful look, mean and cunning and in some way almost imbecile, taking it’s place. She shuddered, and her heart beat quickly. But the goblin-brightness stayed on her face.