“Can you give up Stuart?”
“No,” softly.
“Peter, that wonderful type of friendship doesn’t exist, where the one left out rejoices at the good fortune of the other. If I had tumbled into Paradise with some man, could you have listened to my exuberant confidences, and been noble about them?”
And again Peter said softly, “No.”
Merle lay back among the pillows, hands clasped behind her head.... At any moment she might cry: “Pax, Peter, pax!”...
“I can’t bear to be the one who lags, for whom allowances must be made, passion suppressed. There’s nothing to be done, Peter; we’ve quarrelled, and we’re going to part for ever. Humiliating, isn’t it? I wonder just how we got here.”
“Playing at God,” muttered Peter savagely; and slung her cloak around her shoulders, rammed her hat on to her head. She felt she could not stand much more. Every bit of her was aching to throw strong arms about the slight figure lying on the elaborate brocade bedspread; hold her tight, in defiance of the ridiculous notion that anything could possibly arise between them, with which their boyish brains and sense of humour and glorious intimacy would be unable to cope.—And then arose memories of last night ... one must pay for these little primitive displays. With fatal clarity, she saw Merle’s point of view. Not for the victor to insult by generosity, to dictate terms of peace; according to their code, Peter, as top-dog, was powerless to make overtures; she must simply acquiesce.
“If—when ... the other thing is done with——?” she began.
“Not even then. It would never look the same....”
(Peter bit her lip, anticipating with sickening exactitude the end of the sentence.)