She looked up from the letter she was writing. “I thought you had arranged everything the last time you were together?”
“Yes—more or less. But I feel I ought to see him again, just once. It’s a good opportunity today, don’t you think? I mean, we weren’t going to have done anything; you’re busy.” He spoke easily, naturally, as if there was no question of her minding.
She was not deceived, though, not for a moment. Why was he never frank with her? Why not admit that he was no longer content to be with her, but must go out and seek any sort of distraction? It was his reticence that hurt her, his refusal to speak the truth. Like a wounded animal she spread out her claws to protect herself.
“You enjoy his company so much, when you have only known him for three weeks?” Her voice was hard and metallic.
He knew this voice. “Darling, don’t be ridiculous. You know I don’t care a damn whether I see this fellow or not.”
“Why do you go, then?”
There was no argument to this. He yawned self-consciously and avoided her eyes. She waited without saying a word. He pretended to lose his temper.
“I’ve told you I don’t want to offend him. It’s a bit thick; there’s always this same old argument whenever I go out. Good God, it’s only for a few hours! If you had your way you’d leave me without a friend in the world. You seem to be jealous if I speak to a dog.”
Jealous! She laughed contemptuously. He had misunderstood her again. As if she could possibly be jealous of the people he knew. It would be different if there was someone worth while. But this careless, selfish way he left her for anyone, for some creature he might not even see again! She despised the weak manner in which he shifted responsibility from himself.
“Go, then,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “since it pains you to hurt a comparative stranger. I’m glad you’ve let me know. I shall remember in future. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that last Monday you promised this sort of thing would never happen again. I realise now that I can’t depend on you at all. I’ve been making rather a fool of myself over you, haven’t I? Well, aren’t you going?”
Her eyes were cold. She had wrapped herself in a sheet of armour.
He turned his back and looked out of the window.
“Charming little scene for nothing at all,” he laughed lightly. “It’s pleasant, isn’t it, living like this? Makes such an attractive atmosphere in the house. Scarcely a day passes without some sort of discussion, does it?” He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels, whistling a tune. He knew that every word tore at her like a knife. He was pleased. He wanted to hurt her. He didn’t care. She sat quite still, pretending to do accounts on a piece of paper. Calmly, dispassionately, she wondered why she loved him. His cruel, selfish nature, the way he took everything from her and gave nothing in return. If he would only realise that the smallest touch of recognition from him, the faintest sign that he would give up something unimportant for her sake, would send a flood of warmth to her heart. He did nothing. She felt herself drawing farther away from him, a lonely figure in an imaginary train. A grey shadow in a world of shadows. There was no one even to wave goodbye.
He watched her out of the tail of his eye. Why must she always parade her suffering before him? Not openly, not something that he could get hold of and flaunt in her face, but quietly, with the resignation of a martyr. A tear ran down her cheek and fell on to the blotting-paper. Oh! hell—he wasn’t going to stand for it. It was damn selfish of her, spoiling his day.
“Look here,” he started, as if nothing had happened, “it’s too late to put the whole thing off now. If you’d said something earlier, naturally I’d have done so. I won’t be long, I promise. I’ll be back soon after lunch.”
Surely this was a compromise. He was going out of his way to be nice to her. He waited to see how she would take it.
“Don’t forget your coat, there’s a bitter east wind,” she told him, and went on writing.
He hesitated a moment, wondering what to do. Did that mean everything was all right? No, he knew her too well. She would suffer the tortures of the damned until he returned. She would imagine every sort of accident. She would bottle up this scene in her mind, making more out of it than there had been. Why didn’t he chuck away this footling lunch and stop with her? He didn’t want to go now at all. He never had, really, all the time.
Another tear fell on to the blotting paper.
“Shall I not go after all?” he suggested weakly, pretending not to notice the tear.
She made a movement of impatience. Did he think she was to be won as easily as this? He was trying to save himself. He was anxious to make up to her, to kiss and be friends like a child, and then forget all about it until the same thing happened again. Did he really want to stay with her? She gave him one more chance.
“Do just as you think best. Don’t attempt to stay unless you feel like it.” Her voice was cool, impersonal.
Damn it all, she might show some sort of emotion. He had offered to stop, and this was how she took it. No, he didn’t see why he should be always giving in to her. What a bore everything was. Why couldn’t they live in peace? It was all her fault.
“Perhaps I’d better go, it looks rather rude,” he said carelessly, and strolled from the room, banging the door on purpose. He
