This was his first sight of Mrs.
Carlos Smith since the wedding. She wore a dress such as he had never
seen on her: a tea-gown--and for lunch! It could be called neither
neat nor prim, but it was voluptuous. Her complexion had bloomed; the
curves of her face were softer, her gestures more abandoned, her
gaze full of a bold and yet shamed self-consciousness, her dark
hair looser. He stood close to her; he stood within the aura of her
recently aroused temperament, and felt it. He thought, could not help
thinking: "Perhaps she bears within her the legacy of new life." He
could not help thinking of her name. He took her hot hand. She said
nothing, but just looked at him. He then said jauntily:
"I say, can I use your telephone a minute?" Fortunately, the telephone
was in the bedroom. He went farther upstairs and shut himself in the
bedroom, and saw naught but the telephone surrounded by the mysterious
influences of inanimate things in the gay, crowded room.
"Is that you, Mrs. Trevise? It's G.J. speaking. G.J.... Hoape. Yes.
Listen. I'm at Concepcion's for lunch, and I want you to come over as
quickly as you can. I've got very bad news indeed--the worst possible.
Carlos has been killed at the Front.
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