Condescension expresses
her act. It was exactly done as one would humour an importunate child,
excuse its childishness, and grant it its desire of the moment.
So it must have been felt by him, for there was a sharp, short tussle of
wills. She would have had him contented, but he was not so to be
contented. There was a little struggle, much silent entreaty from him,
much consideration from her above him--her doubting, judging,
discriminating eyes, her smile, half-tender and half-scornful; but in the
end he kissed her lips, the more ardently for their withholding. Then he
allowed her to sit by the table, not far off, and resumed his smoked
salmon and his zest. She declined to share the meal; was neither hungry
nor thirsty, she said. "Have your own way, my dear," he concluded the
match; "you'll feel all the better for it, I know." She cupped her chin in
her hand, and watched the play of knife and fork, her thoughts elsewhere.
"Now, Sancie," he said presently, in his usual direct manner, "how long is
it since I've seen you?"
She answered at once, without looking up, "A year and ten days."
He shook his head. "That's too long. That's absurd. I don't like that kind
of thing, as a man domestically inclined.
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