"That I couldn't ever, sir! Mrs. West wouldn't
wish it. She thinks so much of you having tea in her sitting-room, and
beside her fire; which is much more, so to say, cosy than that great
unfurnished room, all looking-glass."
At mention of the mirror Ronnie shivered, and yielded. He had almost
forgotten the mirror.
So he sat in his own favourite chair, while Blake stood and poured out
his first cup of tea, then left him to the utter loneliness of being in
that room without Helen.
It is doubtful whether Ronnie had ever loved his wife so passionately
as he loved her while he experienced, for the first time, what it was
like to be without her, in the room where they had hitherto always been
together.
Everything he touched, everything at which he looked, spoke of Helen;
forcing upon him the consciousness of the sweetness of her presence, and
the consequent hardness of her absence.
Yet he had brought this hardness on himself. She had said: "Wouldn't it
be rather lovely to have tea together?" But he had answered: "I don't
think I could bear it." And now he did not know how to bear the fact
that she was not with him.
Then he saw the chair against which he had leaned his 'cello, and with a
thrill of comfort he remembered the Infant of Prague.
How had it fared all this time, in its canvas bag? Perhaps no one had
remembered even to put it back into that.
Having hastily swallowed his tea, lest Blake should arrive at the studio
to inquire what had been amiss with it, Ronnie hurried down the
corridor, entered the long, low room, and turned on the electric light.
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