I wanted him to ask questions, to show enormous astonishment and interest. I was furious with him for being so calm.
"I think you owe me something for coming here," I said crudely.
I wanted to rouse him at any price. I don't know quite what there is in feminine make-up that makes you suddenly want to hurt the man you love—and somehow the more aloof and patient and wonderful they are, the more you want to scratch. It's only when they get a bit peevish and earthly that you suddenly leave off and feel repentant. If a man, especially a husband, ever patted me on the head, I should bite him; and I don't know why, but terribly gentlemanly men always make me feel horribly unladylike.
I don't think I'm a nice character—but I don't think people who feel things terribly, and get themselves all sort of churned up with intensity, are very nice—not what ordinary people call "nice," anyway. I think ordinary people like to feel "sure" of you because it's a great compliment when it is said of you, "She's always just the same." They advance on you with the same trustful confidence that a kitten does on its saucerful of milk. I own it's bad luck to find a saucerful of dead sea, or a minute proportion of fire and brimstone.
"I owe you more than five hundred pounds," Cheneston said quietly; then he looked at me for the first time. "Pam," he said, "you've altered so lately. Are you happy?"
"I'm a twittering bunch of sunshine," I said.
I felt black inside with bitterness and rebellion.
"I'm glad," he answered quietly, "you didn't just strike me that way."
I wanted to cry like a silly kid, and yet I wanted to be a woman of the world and sting and say clever, lashing things full of prettily covered up spite.
I wanted to feel old and hard and bad, and I could only feel young and inadequate and tearful and sniffy, and I hadn't even got a handkerchief.