Monica turned and faced him, with the yellow flare in her eyes, as she looked into his eyes, challenging.
"Yes," she said.
But his eyes did not change. The remoteness at the back of them did not come any nearer.
"Shall you hate her?" she asked, rather breathlessly.
"I don't know," he said slowly.
"Don't!" she pleaded, in the same breathlessness. "Because I rather hate her."
"She's too little to hate," said Jack.
"I know," said Monica rather doubtfully.
She put the food on the table. But she herself ate nothing.
"Aren't you well? You don't eat," he asked.