“No, something you’ll have to fight—if you want to fight it. Harry, perhaps I can’t go on like this. I want to go back to my work.”
He expired a breath he had been holding. “I was guessing it.”
“Before just now?”
“No, while you’ve been speaking. Only now. I asked you weeks ago if you ever felt you regretted—”
She leant forward from the couch whereon she sat, and with an extended hand interrupted him. She said intensely, “Look here, Harry, if it was just regret I’d not mind and I would tell you No a hundred times, just not to disturb you, dear. But when you asked me that you spoke, a minute afterwards, of my having—chucked it, as if it was giving up sugar or stopping bridge. Well, that’s why I’m warning you to look out for yourself. Because, Harry, I don’t regret it. I’m craving to go back to it, craving, craving, craving!” She stopped. She said, “Do you want me not to go back, Harry?”
He looked steadily at her. “Rosalie, it would be a blow to me.”
She said, “Well, then!” and she leaned back in the couch as though all now was explained.
He very gravely asked her, “Are you going back, Rosalie?”
“Would it be a crime, Harry, to go back?”
He said to her, “I believe in my soul it would be a disaster.”