“He is mad,” Grimshaw said slowly.
She stood quite still with her back to him. Her broad shoulders heaved.
“All right, it’s my fault,” she said. “You needn’t rub it in. Go away.”
“I’m not saying it’s your fault,” he said. “The point is whether he’s curable or not. You might possibly help us.”
She stood quite still.
“Why should I want to help you?” she said.
He looked at her statuesque limbs. Beyond her the level grass stretched out. The little company of deer wandered from a patch of cloud shadow into a patch of sunlight. The boughs of a small enclosure, heightened by vivid greens, shook in the April wind.
“Oh, don’t take it too hard,” he said. “I know what it’s like.”
She faced suddenly round upon him, her eyes rather staring.
“Who’s taking it hard?” she said. “Let him rot.” She added: “You devil, to tell me not to take it hard! What do you know about it? Go and give someone else hell. I’ve done with you.”