Sitting upright became more and more of an effort, and the box seemed narrow and over-full.
The instinct of self-pity made her attempt to draw Noel's sympathy indirectly.
"Could you move back a little?" she half whispered. "I am getting rather cramped."
"Are you?" returned Noel with surprise, as he pushed his chair back.
But he did not appear to be in the least concerned about the matter. She looked at him once or twice and he met her glance absently. She knew that her face must show signs of the fatigue that she felt, but she knew also that they would not be perceptible to Noel.
For a moment, one of the rebellious gusts of misery of her stormy childhood shook Alex.
Why—why should there be no one to care, no one to whom it mattered that she be weary or out of spirits, no one to perceive, unprompted, when she was tired? She realized what such instinctive protection and care would mean to her, and the almost passionate gratitude with which she could welcome and return such solicitude.
But with Noel, she need not even exercise it. Had she loved him as she had endeavoured to persuade herself that she did, instead of only the figure of Love called by his name, Alex knew that Noel would have passed by all the smaller manifestations of her love unheeding and uncomprehending.
Her gods were mocking her with counterfeit indeed.
"You look tired, Alex," said her father's courteously-displeased voice.