Chapter 8

           Hildegarde,wavingalargesilkflag,greetedhimontheporch,andevenashekissedherhefeltwithasinkingoftheheartthatthesethreeyearshadtakentheirtoll.Shewasawomanoffortynow,withafaintskirmishlineofgrayhairsinherhead.Thesightdepressedhim.

           Upinhisroomhesawhisreflectioninthefamiliarmirror—hewentcloserandexaminedhisownfacewithanxiety,comparingitafteramomentwithaphotographofhimselfinuniformtakenjustbeforethewar.

           "GoodLord!"hesaidaloud.Theprocesswascontinuing.Therewasnodoubtofit—helookednowlikeamanofthirty.Insteadofbeingdelighted,hewasuneasy—hewasgrowingyounger.Hehadhithertohopedthatoncehereachedabodilyageequivalenttohisageinyears,thegrotesquephenomenonwhichhadmarkedhisbirthwouldceasetofunction.Heshuddered.Hisdestinyseemedtohimawful,incredible.

           WhenhecamedownstairsHildegardewaswaitingforhim.Sheappearedannoyed,andhewonderedifshehadatlastdiscoveredthattherewassomethingamiss.Itwaswithanefforttorelievethetensionbetweenthemthathebroachedthematteratdinnerinwhatheconsideredadelicateway.

           "Well,"heremarkedlightly,"everybodysaysIlookyoungerthanever."

           Hildegarderegardedhimwithscorn.Shesniffed."Doyouthinkit’sanythingtoboastabout?"

           "I’mnotboasting,"heasserteduncomfortably.Shesniffedagain."Theidea,"shesaid,andafteramoment:"Ishouldthinkyou’dhaveenoughpridetostopit."

           "HowcanI?"hedemanded.