He did not pity her now. He stood dazed as from a blow, dazed with the terrific shock of the impact of reality upon his dream. He tried to rouse himself, to see, to feel. But everything was misty and unreal to him. He spoke to her, as though across a vast space, dully.
“So you didn’t mean it?”
She sprang up.
“Why are you here? Didn’t you go? Aren’t you going? Are you trying to torture me?”
She advanced upon him with eyes that blazed, hair wild, and hands that had transformed themselves into claws ready to scratch and tear him. He saw all this as if it were a picture—a picture irrelevant to the text. He made a little gesture as if to turn the leaf.
“So you didn’t mean it,” he said again.
She stopped, close to him; looked at him searchingly. “Where have you been?” she asked uncertainly.
He laughed mirthlessly. “Outside the door—looking at the moon.”
“I thought—” she said.
“No,” he said, quietly, sadly. All this ought to matter greatly. But somehow it didn’t matter at all.