The General standing in the dark saw her
before his wife's mirror, wearing his wife's jewels, wrapped in the
cloak which his wife had worn--triumphant--beautiful!
It was that air of triumph which repelled him. It was a discordant
note in the Cophetua theme. He had liked her in her nurse's white. In
the trappings which did not belong to her she showed herself a trifle
vulgar--less than a lady.
He had crept back to bed, and wide-awake, he had worked it all out in
his mind. It was his money which Hilda wanted, the things that he
could give her; he meant to her pink parasols and satin slippers, and
diamonds and pearls and ermines and sables, and a check-book, with
unlimited credit everywhere.
And to get the things that she wanted, she had given him that which had
stolen away his brains, which might indeed have done more than
that--which might have killed his soul.
He had heard her come in, but he had simulated sleep. She had seated
herself by the little table, and had gone on with her book. Between
his half-closed eyes he had studied her--seeing her with new eyes--the
hard line of her lips, the long white hands, the heaviness of her chin.
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