He was determined not to speak of Antonia and to ask no questions. To ask questions would be to recognize the new bond between her and Antonia. But, unasked, emphasizing to his raw consciousness his own exclusion, she said: “Antonia is so sorry to leave you alone like this. She had one of her bad nights and thought a complete rest would do her good.”
He reflected that it was more dignified to show strength by generosity and to play into her hands. “Does she have bad nights?” he asked.
“Oh, very. Didn’t you know?” said Miss Latimer. “She’s obliged to take things.”
“Drugs, do you mean?” He had not known at all. “That’s very bad for her.”
“Very bad. But her doctor allows it apparently.”
“She took one last night and it did no good?”
“None at all. I hope she is getting a little sleep now. Sugar?” Miss Latimer poised a lump before him in the tongs and, on his assent, dropped it into his cup. Could two creatures have looked more cosy, shut, for the blind-man’s-holiday hour, into the tranquil intimacy of the studious room, with the even glow of its tended fire, the cheer of its humming kettle, the scented promise of its tea-table? She passed him toasted scones from the hot-water-basin and offered home-made jam. He wanted no jam, but he found himself quite hungry, absurdly so, he thought, until he remembered that he had really eaten no lunch. He was coming, now that the opening had been made, and while he ate his scone, to a new decision. It was the moment, and perhaps the only one he would have, for finding out just how much she counted against him. He determined, if it were necessary, on open warfare.
“I don’t think Wyndwards suits Tony,” he said.
“Don’t you?” Miss Latimer returned, but quite without impertinence. “She’s always been very well here before.”
“Before what?”