“I’m glad you feel that way about it,” she says. “Of course I’m frightfully interested.”
“Then it wouldn’t bore you?”
“No,” she says. She maintains a reserved attitude; politely interested. Sit back against the cushions and draw a deep breath.
“I want to be fair to Emma. I guess the fault was on both sides. I can’t help remembering that after all, it was my idea that we get married. I remember it perfectly well: I had to argue with her. You mustn’t think that I’m trying to whine about it.” Smile at her rather sadly and whimsically.
“Ben, you know I don’t,” she cries.
“I don’t know. Naturally I feel a little defensive. After all, I suppose you’re on her side. I met you through her.”
“Don’t be silly. I just want to hear the truth. You’re both my friends.”
“That’s what I wanted you to say, Barbara.” The fire crackles comfortably. “Well, anyway, there it is. I don’t know just how it happened. My fault, I suppose, but I refuse to feel guilty. I’m awful. I keep wondering why in hell I wanted to get married. I remember in a very vague and impersonal sort of way that she was pretty.”
“Oh yes,” she says eagerly. “Wasn’t she pretty?”
“I don’t know when all the trouble did start. I can’t even figure it out. I don’t know that I want to.” Kick the flaming log.