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”
To
the
right
of
the
drive
,
under
a
clump
of
trees
,
a
little
stucco
pavilion
crowned
by
a
balustrade
rose
on
arches
of
mouldering
brick
over
a
flight
of
steps
that
led
down
to
a
spring
.
Other
steps
curved
up
to
a
door
above
.
Darrow
mounted
these
,
and
opening
the
door
entered
a
small
circular
room
hung
with
loosened
strips
of
painted
paper
whereon
spectrally
faded
Mandarins
executed
elongated
gestures
.
Some
black
and
gold
chairs
with
straw
seats
and
an
unsteady
table
of
cracked
lacquer
stood
on
the
floor
of
red
-
glazed
tile
.
Sophy
had
followed
him
without
comment
.
He
closed
the
door
after
her
,
and
she
stood
motionless
,
as
though
waiting
for
him
to
speak
.
“
Now
we
can
talk
quietly
,
”
he
said
,
looking
at
her
with
a
smile
into
which
he
tried
to
put
an
intention
of
the
frankest
friendliness
.
She
merely
repeated
:
“
I
can
’
t
think
what
you
can
have
to
say
.
”
Her
voice
had
lost
the
note
of
half
-
wistful
confidence
on
which
their
talk
of
the
previous
day
had
closed
,
and
she
looked
at
him
with
a
kind
of
pale
hostility
.
Her
tone
made
it
evident
that
his
task
would
be
difficult
,
but
it
did
not
shake
his
resolve
to
go
on
.
He
sat
down
,
and
mechanically
she
followed
his
example
.
The
table
was
between
them
and
she
rested
her
arms
on
its
cracked
edge
and
her
chin
on
her
interlocked
hands
.
He
looked
at
her
and
she
gave
him
back
his
look
.
“
Have
you
nothing
to
say
to
me
?
”
he
asked
at
length
.
A
faint
smile
lifted
,
in
the
remembered
way
,
the
left
corner
of
her
narrowed
lips
.
“
About
my
marriage
?
”
“
About
your
marriage
.
”
