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Updated: June 28, 2025
"What is it?" she ejaculated, and turned to catch her reflection in a mirror. She saw herself in a curious aspect also, white and a little wild. One of her shoulder straps had slipped down across her arm. "What a dress!" she said. David carefully pronounced the words: "That was Rysbroek, wasn't it?" "Yes; I've known him since we were kiddies." "I remember your saying so."
"David!" she protested, her nerves contracting at this threat of a scene that must lacerate both their hearts. But he persisted: "I don't disbelieve what you told me about Rysbroek. It's not he that I'm jealous of. I can even believe that there's no other living man in your thoughts. The powers that I can never hope to conquer don't have to exist in the present, in order to frighten me.
The high, gray walls of the house disappeared behind a rush of trees; the conical turret roofs of slate sank quickly away. From the terrace Cornelius Rysbroek stared at the distant gateway through which they had vanished. The car rushed through the countryside. The orderly fields stretched away toward gentle slopes on which cows were grazing.
He raised the curtain, and stalked away through the camp, clashing superbly between the fires, while the clustered askaris and porters regarded him dismally. A white man in a fleece-lined coat, who had been waiting in the open for the messenger to depart, entered the tent and sat down beside the bed. He was Cornelius Rysbroek. "Shall you try to march to-morrow?" Lawrence Teck did not reply.
Cornelius Rysbroek saw her lovely head turning away from him, the swirl of her cloak as she ascended the steps, the flash of her tapering boot heel. He then stood looking round him through his ironical, weary mask, one hand on the back of a chair, however, as if without that support his quaking legs might let him fall to the floor. The limousine glided northward. A cold rain was falling.
One night, at the end of the winter, she astonished everybody by appearing with Fanny Brassfield in a box at the opera, wearing a black velvet dress that made her, in that great horseshoe blooming with flowerlike gowns, the objective of all eyes. "There is hope!" said one young man waggishly to another. "Cornie Rysbroek ought to see this." But Cornelius Rysbroek was traveling far away.
In the black-and-white hall, at the entrance to the drawing-room, a man stood before her, tanned, lean from physical hardships, strange-looking and yet familiar. Instead of a small mustache intended to be debonaire, he had a heavy one; his shoulders were wider and straighter than formerly; he advanced with a quick, swinging step. "Cornie Rysbroek!"
Then she glanced over the books in which the paragraphs were shortest, ran through a few magazines, kicked off her slippers, put her feet on a stool, lighted a cigarette, and fell back upon gossip. Madame Zanidov was now visiting in Maine. Cornelius Rysbroek had gone to Mexico. "Mexico! Aren't things rather unsettled there?"
Now Cornelius Rysbroek had become a lean, neat hypochondriac, highly cultivated, with fine instincts and excruciating aversions, bored by his leisure, yet incapable of action, and inconstant in every aspiration except this love of his. Whenever she refused him he sailed away, after threatening to plunge into some wild, dramatic waste, but always compromising on the easiest, beaten path.
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