“He has a broken heart,” Mrs. Viveash explained.
“Ah, the genuine platonic towsers?” Coleman uttered his artificial demon’s laugh.
“That’s just about it,” said Gumbril, grimly.
Relieved by the shutting of the door from her immediate embarrassment, Rosie threw back a corner of the counterpane and extruded her head, one arm and the shoulder with the mole on it. She looked about her, opening her slanting eyes as wide as she could. She listened with parted lips to the voices that came, muffled now, through the door. It seemed to her as though she were waking up; as though now, for the first time, she were hearing that shattering laugh, were looking now for the first time on these blank, white walls and the one lovely and horrifying picture. Where was she? What did it all mean? Rosie put her hand to her forehead, tried to think. Her thinking was always a series of pictures; one after another the pictures swam up before her eyes, melted again in an instant.
Her mother taking off her pince-nez to wipe them—and at once her eyes were tremulous and vague and helpless. “You should always let the gentleman get over the stile first,” she said, and put on her glasses again. Behind the glasses her eyes immediately became clear, piercing, steady and efficient. Rather formidable eyes. They had seen Rosie getting over the stile in front of Willie Hoskyns, and there was too much leg.
James reading at his desk; his heavy, round head propped on his hand. She came up behind him and threw her arms round his neck. Very gently, and without turning his eyes from the page, he undid her embrace and, with a little push that was no more than a hint, an implication, signified that he didn’t want her. She had gone to her pink room, and cried.
Another time James shook his head and smiled patiently under his moustache. ‘You’ll never learn,’ he said. She had gone to her room and cried that time too.
Another time they were lying in bed together, in the pink bed; only you couldn’t see it was pink because there was no light. They were lying very quietly. Warm and happy and remote she felt. Sometimes as it were the physical memory of pleasure plucked at her nerves, making her start, making her suddenly shiver. James was breathing as though he were asleep. All at once he stirred. He patted her shoulder two or three times in a kindly and business-like way. “I know what that means,” she said, “when you pat me like that.” And she patted him—pat-pat-pat, very quickly. “It means you’re going to bed.” “How do you know?” he asked. “Do you think I don’t know you after all this time? I know that pat by heart.” And suddenly all her warm, quiet happiness evaporated; it was all gone. “I’m only a machine for going to bed with,” she said. “That’s all I am for you.” She felt she would like to cry. But James only laughed and said, “Nonsense!” and pulled his arm clumsily from underneath her. “You go to sleep,” he said, and kissed her on the forehead. Then he got out of bed, and she heard him bumping clumsily about in the darkness. “Damn!” he said once. Then he found the door, opened, and was gone.
She thought of those long stories she used to make up when she went shopping. The fastidious lady; the poets; all the adventures.
Toto’s hands were wonderful.