He flung the water in her face, putting into the action all the secret brutality of his spite, yet still felt that it would have been perfectly excusable--in any one--to send the tumbler after the water. He restrained himself, but at the same time was so convinced nothing could stop the horror of those mad shrieks that, when the first sensation of relief came, it did not even occur to him to doubt the impression of having become suddenly deaf. When, next moment, he became sure that she was sitting up, and really very quiet, it was as though everything--men, things, sensations, had come to a rest. He was prepared to be grateful. He could not take his eyes off her, fearing, yet unwilling to admit, the possibility of her beginning again; for, the experience, however contemptuously he tried to think of it, had left the bewilderment of a mysterious terror. Her face was streaming with water and tears; there was a wisp of hair on her forehead, another stuck to her cheek; her hat was on one side, undecorously tilted; her soaked veil resembled a sordid rag festooning her forehead. There was an utter unreserve in her aspect, an abandonment of safeguards, that ugliness of truth which can only be kept out of daily life by unremitting care for appearances. He did not know why, looking at her, he thought suddenly of to-morrow, and why the thought called out a deep feeling of unutterable, discouraged weariness--a fear of facing the succession of days. To-morrow! It was as far as yesterday. Ages elapsed between sunrises--sometimes. He scanned her features like one looks at a forgotten country. They were not distorted--he recognized landmarks, so to speak; but it was only a resemblance that he could see, not the woman of yesterday--or was it, perhaps, more than the woman of yesterday? Who could tell? Was it something new? A new expression--or a new shade of expression? or something deep--an old truth unveiled, a fundamental and hidden truth--some unnecessary, accursed certitude? He became aware that he was trembling very much, that he had an empty tumbler in his hand--that time was passing. Still looking at her with lingering mistrust he reached towards the table to put the glass down and was startled to feel it apparently go through the wood. He had missed the edge. The surprise, the slight jingling noise of the accident annoyed him beyond expression. He turned to her irritated. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked, grimly. She passed her hand over her face and made an attempt to get up. “You’re not going to be absurd again,” he said. “‘Pon my soul, I did not know you could forget yourself to that extent.” He didn’t try to conceal his physical disgust, because he believed it to be a purely moral reprobation of every unreserve, of anything in the nature of a scene. “I assure you--it was revolting,” he went on. He stared for a moment at her. “Positively degrading,” he added with insistence.