She looked at him.
He was a phenomenon to her, not a human being: a sort of creature, greedy.
'I like it very much,' she replied.
'Who do you like best downstairs?' he asked, standing tall and glistening above her, with his glistening stiff hair erect.
'Who do I like best?' she repeated, wanting to answer his question, and finding it difficult to collect herself. 'Why I don't know, I don't know enough about them yet, to be able to say.
Who do YOU like best?'
'Oh, I don't care—I don't like or dislike any of them.
It doesn't matter about me.
I wanted to know about you.'
'But why?' she asked, going rather pale.
The abstract, unconscious smile in his eyes was intensified.
'I wanted to know,' he said.
She turned aside, breaking the spell.
In some strange way, she felt he was getting power over her.
'Well, I can't tell you already,' she said.
She went to the mirror to take out the hairpins from her hair.
She stood before the mirror every night for some minutes, brushing her fine dark hair.
It was part of the inevitable ritual of her life.
He followed her, and stood behind her.
She was busy with bent head, taking out the pins and shaking her warm hair loose.
When she looked up, she saw him in the glass standing behind her, watching unconsciously, not consciously seeing her, and yet watching, with finepupilled eyes that SEEMED to smile, and which were not really smiling.
She started.
It took all her courage for her to continue brushing her hair, as usual, for her to pretend she was at her ease.
She was far, far from being at her ease with him.
She beat her brains wildly for something to say to him.
'What are your plans for tomorrow?' she asked nonchalantly, whilst her heart was beating so furiously, her eyes were so bright with strange nervousness, she felt he could not but observe.
But she knew also that he was completely blind, blind as a wolf looking at her.
It was a strange battle between her ordinary consciousness and his uncanny, black-art consciousness.
'I don't know,' he replied, 'what would you like to do?'
He spoke emptily, his mind was sunk away.
'Oh,' she said, with easy protestation, 'I'm ready for anything—anything will be fine for ME, I'm sure.'
And to herself she was saying:
'God, why am I so nervous—why are you so nervous, you fool.
If he sees it I'm done for forever—you KNOW you're done for forever, if he sees the absurd state you're in.'
And she smiled to herself as if it were all child's play.
Meanwhile her heart was plunging, she was almost fainting.
She could see him, in the mirror, as he stood there behind her, tall and over-arching—blond and terribly frightening.
She glanced at his reflection with furtive eyes, willing to give anything to save him from knowing she could see him.
He did not know she could see his reflection.
He was looking unconsciously, glisteningly down at her head, from which the hair fell loose, as she brushed it with wild, nervous hand.
She held her head aside and brushed and brushed her hair madly.
For her life, she could not turn round and face him.
For her life, SHE COULD NOT.
And the knowledge made her almost sink to the ground in a faint, helpless, spent.
She was aware of his frightening, impending figure standing close behind her, she was aware of his hard, strong, unyielding chest, close upon her back.
And she felt she could not bear it any more, in a few minutes she would fall down at his feet, grovelling at his feet, and letting him destroy her.
The thought pricked up all her sharp intelligence and presence of mind.
She dared not turn round to him—and there he stood motionless, unbroken.
Summoning all her strength, she said, in a full, resonant, nonchalant voice, that was forced out with all her remaining self-control:
'Oh, would you mind looking in that bag behind there and giving me my—'