But Trix was pleased to prolong, even by so little, the atmosphere and associations of the evening, to be able to talk about it a little more, to question him while she questioned herself also indirectly. She put him through a catechism about the members of the party, delighted to elicit anything that confirmed her notion of their independence, their carelessness, and their comradeship. He answered what she asked, but in a rather absent melancholy fashion; a pall seemed to have fallen on his spirits again. She turned to him, attracted, not repelled, by his relapse into sadness.
'We're not equal to it, you and I,' she said with a laugh. 'We don't live there; we can only pay a visit, as you said.'
He nodded, leaning back against the well-padded cushions with an air of finding unwonted ease. He looked tired and worn.
'Why? We work too hard, I suppose. Yes, I work too, in my way.'
'It's not work exactly,' he said. 'They work too, you know.'
'What is it then?' She bent forward to look at his face, pale in the light of the small carriage lamp.
'It's the Devil,' he told her. Their eyes met in a long gaze. Trix smiled appealingly. She had to go back to her difficult life—to Mervyn, to the Chance and Fricker entanglement. She felt alone and afraid.
'The Devil, is it? Have I raised him?' she asked. 'Well, you taught me how. If I—if I come to grief, you must help me.'
'You don't know in the least the sort of man you're talking to,' he declared, almost roughly.
'I know you're a good friend.'