But the solitary readers, sitting in corners over books, or perched, thoughtfully munching and sipping, with their backs to the room, on the high stools at the refreshment counter, and presently getting down to escape untouched and free, through the swing door, their unlifted eyes recovering already, through its long glass panels, the living dream of the hugely moving galleries, reproached her for her lost state.
Mr. Shatov’s dreaming face woke to prevent her adding milk to his tea, and settled again, dwelling with his far off theme. She began listening in detail to screen her base interest in her extravagant fare. “It is a remarkable fact,” he was saying and she looked up, astonished at the sudden indistinctness of his voice. His eyes met hers severely, above the rim of his cup, “but of almost universal application,” he proceeded thickly, and paused to produce between his lips a saturated lump of sugar. She stared, horrified. Very gravely, unattained by her disgust, he drew in his tea in neat noiseless sips till the sugar disappeared … when he deftly extracted another lump from the basin and went on with his story.
The series of lumps, passing one by one without accident through their shocking task, softened in some remarkable way the history of Tourgainyeff and Madame Viardot. The protest that struggled in her to rise and express itself was held in check by his peculiar serenity. The frequent filling of his cup and the selection of his long series of lumps brought no break in his concentration. … Above the propped elbows and the cup held always at the level of his lips, his talking face was turned to hers. Expressions moved untroubled through his eyes.