and Mrs. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. “You don’t want to go?” “No. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house.
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