She heard a key in the lock; closed the penknife; slipped it into the pocket of her frock; went back to the fire. When Miguales came in she was standing there, relaxed, reposeful, one arm stretched casually along the mantelpiece.
He stood just inside the doorway looking at her. There was a dejected stoop to his shoulders and his long virile hands hung by his side almost in an attitude of despair. He stood looking at her for a long time as if he were trying to analyse his own thoughts of her.
She said: "Good-evening, Enrico. Why are you so unhappy?" Her voice was very soft, very low.
Miguales shrugged his shoulders. He went to the sideboard, mixed and poured out two cocktails. He came across to where she stood, the cocktail glasses in his hands. He gave her one.
He said: "Never was ther
