"Cold?" he said.
"Yes, horribly cold, Nick," she answered.
She tried to smile, but her lips were too stiff. A very curious feeling was creeping over her, a species of cramp that was mental as well as physical. She leaned back in her chair, staring straight before her, seeing nothing.
Nick went round to the tea-pot. She heard him pouring out, but she could not turn her head.
"I ought to do that," she said.
"All right, dear. I'm capable," he answered.
And then in his deft fashion he came to her with the cup, and sat on the arm of her chair, holding it for her.
"Don't try to talk," he said. "Just drink this and sit still."
She leaned her head against him, feeling his vitality as one feels the throb of an electric battery.
"Do you think God is angry with me, Nick?" she said. "She wanted to go—so dreadfully."