"You are losing your imagination," cried Maurice.
It was a bitter reproach. He stood over her, rumpling up his hair, and the wiry tufts sprung upright, quivering from his scalp.
Penelope gulped, then sat for a moment in a silence full of the consciousness of her brutality. She had never dreamed that her secret preoccupation would be so perceptible to Maurice. Unconsciously she had been drawing her imaginations in upon herself like the petals of a flower, and her emotions buzzed and throbbed within them like a pent-up bee.
The room was dark with rain, and they heard the drip and rustle of leaves in the drinking garden. Through the open window the warm, wet air blew in on them, and a shimmer of rain was visible against the trees beyond.
"I never meant———" began Penelope.
"I beg your pardon," said Maurice stiffly.
48
