He was frankly confounded.
“I thought it might be an argument in my favour,” he said resentfully.
“There’s only one thing that could really count in that way—well, two things, to be accurate. Your need of me, Owen.”
“It’s quite real,” he returned levelly. “I’m lonely, and yet the company of most of the people I know rather annoys me. And there’s another thing. I’m frightened, very often. It’s since the war, and—and you know I’d been shell-shocked, as they call it? I’ve thought lately that if you were there—the realest person I know—I shouldn’t be frightened, at Stear. I’m giving you facts, Lucilla—not romance. We’ve both missed that.”
“Val didn’t stand to you for romance, did she?”
“No.”
Quentillian could think of nothing at all to add to his bald negative.
“Well, we’ve faced your risks,” said Lucilla. “What about mine?”
“The worst one is that you should find me an intolerable egotist,” he said rather unsteadily.
“We can discount that.”