“Oh, yes, yes, I know,” said Roland, rising impatiently from his chair and walking across the room. “Of course you said we were, and that I had been making love to you, and that—oh, but what’s the good of going on with it? I know what she said and what you said, and the whole thing was out in three minutes, and then your mother comes round to my mother and they talk and they talk, and that’s how all the trouble in the world begins.”
While he was actually speaking he was sustained by the white heat of his impatience, but the moment he had stopped he was bitterly ashamed of himself. What had he done? What had he said? And April’s silence accentuated his shame. She neither turned angrily upon him nor burst into tears. She sat quietly, her hands clasped in front of her knees, looking at the floor.
After a while she rose and walked across to the window. Her back was turned to him. He felt that he must do something to shatter the poignant silence. He drew close to her and touched her hand with his, but she drew her hand away quietly, without haste or anger.
“April,” he began, “I’m....”
But she stopped him. “Don’t say anything. Please don’t say anything.”
“But I must, April. I’ve been a beast. I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s quite all right. I’ve been very foolish. There’s nothing more to be said.”
Her voice was calm and level. She kept her back turned to him, distant and unapproachable. He did not know what to do nor what to say. He had been a beast to her. He knew it. And because he had wronged her, because she had made him feel ashamed of himself, he was angry with her.
“Oh, very well then,” he said. “If you won’t talk to me, I’m going home.”
He turned and walked out of the room. In the porch he waited for a moment, thinking that she would call after him. But no sound came from the drawing-room, not even the rustle of clothes, that might have indicated the change of her position. “Oh, well,” he said, “if she’s going to sulk, let her sulk,” and he walked out of the house.