§ 9
He was full of a kind of boisterous arrogance.
“Stiff little bit from Stortford.... But, of course, we took it awfully slow.... Road’s not so bad.... Ever been on the road from Aberystwyth to Dolgelly?”
Catherine had not. (Nor had George for that matter.)
“Awful bit of road, that....” (It occurred to him as being a strip of road that might conceivably be awful.)
She could see that he was showing off to her. He was proud of his machine, proud of the white dust on his shoes, of his sun-tanned face, of his goggles, his gauntlet gloves, and his earflaps. He was superbly proud of having piloted himself and her from the corner of Bockley High Street and the Ridgeway to the streets of Cambridge without hitch or mishap. Six hours ago they were in Bockley. Now they were in a self-sufficing and exceedingly provincial University town, the very antithesis of suburbia. And the miracle was his! His hands, his nerve, his eye had wrought it! He was excusably pleased with himself.
But she was conscious of a curious sense of disappointment. It was now three months since that evening when he had taken her to Gifford Road in a taxi. It was three months since she had divined intuitively that he was in love with her. And during those three months he had been marvellously reticent, exasperatingly discreet. She had almost begun to doubt the reliability of her instinct. And though she knew she did not in the least reciprocate his feelings, she was fascinated by the idea that she was something incalculable and vital to him. Perhaps it was sheer pride of conquest, perhaps it was merely her love of compliments and her extreme gratification at this, the supreme compliment of all. Or perhaps it was just her own inexplicable perversity.
He was anxious to get back before lighting-up time, and she, for no very definite reason, was inclined to prefer a quick run under the cool moonlight. She deliberately delayed him by showing fastidiousness in the selection of a café. Then she got him talking about the Arts Club.
“I hear you’re going to speak next Sunday.”
“Oh yes—just read a paper, that’s all. On Ibsen’s Wild Duck.... Of course, you’ve read it?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t read any Ibsen.”
“Really? ... Oh, you must read him. Awfully good, you know. Stimulating; modern; very modern. Doll’s House, you know. Rosmersholm and Little Eyolf.... And, of course, Ghosts. Absolute biological nightmare—Ghosts ... but terrifically clever.... I’ll lend you the whole lot if you’ll promise to read them.”
“Right,” she said. And she thought: “Doesn’t he like to show he knows more than I know? But if he is in love with me it won’t matter about that.” (And she could not properly have explained that thought either.)
But she kept him talking because she saw it was getting late.