But this only made him shut off from her.
“Ah well,” he said, “words make no matter, any way. The thing is between us, or it isn’t.”
“You don’t even love me,” she cried.
“I do,” he said angrily. “But I want—” His mind saw again the lovely golden light of spring transfused through her eyes, as through some wonderful window. And he wanted her to be with him there, in this world of proud indifference. But what was the good of telling her he wanted this company in proud indifference. What was the good of talking, any way? It must happen beyond the sound of words. It was merely ruinous to try to work her by conviction. This was a paradisal bird that could never be netted, it must fly by itself to the heart.
“I always think I am going to be loved—and then I am let down. You don’t love me, you know. You don’t want to serve me. You only want yourself.”
A shiver of rage went over his veins, at this repeated: “You don’t want to serve me.” All the paradisal disappeared from him.
“No,” he said, irritated, “I don’t want to serve you, because there is nothing there to serve. What you want me to serve, is nothing, mere nothing. It isn’t even you, it is your mere female quality. And I wouldn’t give a straw for your female ego—it’s a rag doll.”
“Ha!” she laughed in mockery. “That’s all you think of me, is it? And then you have the impudence to say you love me.”
She rose in anger, to go home.
You want the paradisal unknowing,” she said, turning round on him as he still sat half-visible in the shadow. “I know what that means, thank you. You want me to be your thing, never to criticise you or to have anything to say for myself. You want me to be a mere thing for you! No thank you! If you want that, there are plenty of women who will give it to you. There are plenty of women who will lie down for you to walk over them—go to them then, if that’s what you want—go to them.”