“You would?” she said, and then was silent, with a tact a shade too obvious. He was heartily sorry he had ever mentioned the thing.
His food seemed to choke him, when he thought of Rosaleen in want. He felt gross, decadent, pampered, when he thought of her running through the streets in her slippers, carrying immense packages. He began, ridiculously, to deprive himself of things. It somehow gave him consolation to make himself less comfortable.
He wrote to her again, and enclosed a larger cheque. (He the prudent, the practical!)
“Dear Rosaleen:
“You must let me help you. If you won’t think of yourself, think of others. You will wear yourself out, living like this. Tell me how I can be of service.”
This letter, too, was never answered, and when four days had gone by, he decided to go down there and see for himself how things were going. It was a bright, quiet Sunday and he had contemplated asking her to go for a walk, so that they could have a serious talk. But he found Lawrence sitting alone in the studio.
“Rosaleen’s gone out,” he said. “I’m alone, and you can’t imagine how I dislike being alone. Sit down and talk to me, won’t you? Of course I quite realise that I’m not the magnet, and so on, but nevertheless.... Eh?”
In common decency, Nick was obliged to comply.
“Do you know,” Lawrence went on, “one of the worst things about this thing is the monstrous jealousy it brings out. I’m jealous of Rosaleen. Not as a husband, you understand; I’m not capable of that. I’ve never been able to understand it. Why distress oneself so inordinately for the frail creatures? Why not expect the worst? No, I’m jealous of her because she can see and I can’t. And she doesn’t need to see.... I hate her for it, sometimes.... Good God!... I’m growing worse and worse. Everything is hazy now, as if there were a film over my eyes. It—maddens me. I’m always trying to brush it away....”
He groaned, and drew his hand across his forehead.