‘Yes,’ said Christopher.
‘You don’t feel at all ashamed?’
‘No,’ said Christopher.
She got out, and walked on to the shingle, and stood with her back to him, apparently considering the view. It was low tide, and the sea lay a good way off across wet sands. The sheltered bay was very quiet, and she could hear larks singing above the grassy banks behind her. Dreadful how little angry she was. She turned her back so as to hide how little angry she was. She wasn’t really angry at all, and she knew she ought to be. Christopher ought to be sent away at once and for ever, but there were two reasons against that,—one that he wouldn’t go, and the other that she didn’t want him to. Contrary to all right feeling, to all sense of what was decent, she was amazingly glad to be with him again. She didn’t do any of the things she ought to do,—flame with anger, wither him with rebukes. It was shameful, but there it was: she was amazingly glad to be with him again.
Christopher, watching her, tried to keep up a stout heart. He had had such a horrible week that whatever happened now couldn’t anyhow be worse. And she—well, she didn’t look any the happier for it, for running away from him, either.
He tried to make his voice sound fearless. ‘Catherine, we must talk,’ he said. ‘It’s no use turning your back on me and staring at the silly view. You don’t see it, so why pretend?’
She didn’t move. She was wondering at the way her attitude towards him had developed in this week. All the while she was so indignant with him she was really getting used to him, getting used to the idea of him. Helped, of course, by Stephen. Immensely helped by Stephen, and even by Virginia.
‘I told you you’d never get away from me,’ he said to the back of her head, putting all he had of defiance into his voice. But he had so little; it was bluff, sheer bluff, while his heart was ignominiously in his boots.
‘Your methods amaze me,’ said Catherine to the view.
‘Why did you run away?’