He stopped, and again stood still, and his lips moved as though he were talking to the little parchment lamp, for he was looking directly at it, but no sound came from them. He was pronouncing Jane’s name.
He turned and looked behind him, downstairs, and started at sight of a dark form against the wall in the hall below, but saw at once that it was the side of the high black frame of the mirror and coat-rack. He had avoided looking into the mirror as he passed, and he wished now that he hadn’t; he wanted to know what his face looked like; in the street he had felt that people were staring at him.
There were still sounds of Mrs. Jordan in the basement, but now he thought he heard another noise, above, and he turned quickly to look at the door facing the first landing. It was closed; it had not moved; there was no light under it. Those girls would not be at home anyway, he reflected, they were always out at night. That was one of the things he had counted on.
You counted on, a bitter voice said to him; yes, you might count on that, you might count on anything except yourself…