She fulfilled her intentions. Charles, who had been flourishing under the kindness of her friendship, was puzzled by her capriciousness, but he did not question her. He was learning to accept mysteries calmly and to work at them in his head. She shuffled her feet and he pretended not to hear: she crackled her programme and he smiled down at her. This was maddening, yet it was a tribute to her power. She could do what she liked and Charles would love her; he was a great possession; she did not know what she would do without him.
As they ate their rich cakes in a famous teashop, Charles talked incessantly about the music, and when at last he paused, she said indifferently, “I didn’t hear a note.”
Mildly he advised her not to wear such tight shoes.
“Tight!” She looked down at them. “I had them made for me!”
“You seemed to be uncomfortable,” he said.
“I was thinking, thinking, thinking.”
“What about?”
“Things you wouldn’t understand, Charles. You’re too good.”
“I dare say,” he murmured.
“You’ve never wanted to murder anyone.”