THE RETURN
Seventeen years—they go past you like a flash, he says, when you're working."
"Seventeen years," said Lydia deliberately, "are bound to make a difference to a woman. Did you care for him?"
Mrs. Tottenham made no answer; she was staring at the photograph. Her eyes dilated, and she licked her lips.
"I suppose you'll be glad to see him again?" suggested Lydia. She felt suddenly alert and interested, as though she were watching through the lens of a microscope some tortured insect twirling on a pin.
Mrs. Tottenham sat down stiffly on the sofa, and laid the photo on her lap. Suddenly she clasped her hands and put them up before her eyes.
"I couldn't," she gasped. "Not after all these years I couldn't. Not like this. O Lord, I've got so ugly! I can't pretend—I haven't got the heart to risk it. It's been so real to me, I couldn't bear to lose him.
"It's all gone, it's all gone. I've been pretending. I used to be a fine figure of a woman. How can I have the heart to care when I couldn't keep him caring?"
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