Twilight Sleep
Mrs. Manford, seizing it, rose to the occasion with one of her heroic wing-beats. "Yes—I was. Please show him in," she said, without risking a glance at her daughter.
Arthur Wyant came in, tall and stooping in his shabby well-cut clothes, a nervous flush on his cheek-bones. He paused, and sent a half-bewildered stare about the room—a look which seemed to say that when he had made up his mind that he must see Pauline he had failed to allow for the familiarity of the setting in which he was to find her.
"You've hardly changed anything here," he said abruptly, in the far-off tone of a man slowly coming back to consciousness.
"How are you, Arthur? I'm sorry you've had such a rainy day for your trip," Mrs. Manford responded, with an easy intonation intended to reach the retreating Powder.
Her former husband took no notice. His eyes continued to travel about the room in the same uncertain searching way.
"Hardly anything," he repeated, still seemingly unaware of any presence in the room but his own. "That Raeburn, though—yes. That used to be in the dining-room, didn't it?" He passed his hand over his forehead, as if to brush away some haze of oblivion, and walked up to the picture.
"Wait a bit. It's in the place where the Sargent of Jim as a youngster used to hang—Jim on his pony. Just over my writing-table, so that I saw it when-
