Pauncefote swallowed.
“At least,” he said, “we’ve got the same point of view.”
“What you mean is we both see the rot,” said Jean, preparing to fight her way out of her dress. “But I regret it. You only deplore it, you know. You said you were comfortable.”
“I said I cared,” said her husband. “And—and so I do.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Jean, slipping into a dressing-gown. “The trouble is that I don’t. You’re quite all right, you know. I’ve no complaints—either.”
She took her seat at the table and began to loosen her hair.
“I beg your pardon,” said Pauncefote. “I—I’m very fortunate.”
“Don’t!” cried Jean sharply. “Don’t!” The man started at her tone, and their eyes met in the glass. “Don’t!” she repeated fiercely. “I can’t bear it. Once—yes. A year ago. . . . But now it’s too late. Besides, I made you say it. I dragged the words out of your mouth: and so they’re worthless. Worse. They’re a travesty—that’s how they talked in Eden. But we’re in a song-and-dance show—don’t forget that. We’re under contract to Baal. Of course you can ‘pot’ Eden, but I—I couldn’t play Eve. I know I don’t care, but I’m just—just soppy enough not—not to want to pretend.” Her voice broke there, but she plugged the hole with a laugh. “And there’s some real sob-stuff for you. Never mind. You won’t hear it again. It’s the swan-song of my mughood—the last flare-up of the lamp of a foolish virgin, who thought—thought . . .”
She clapped her hands to her face and burst into tears.
Oliver flashed to her side, fell upon one knee and slid an arm round her waist.