He broke out into self-pity. ‘Oh, I can’t bear it. Don’t for God’s sake look like that.... I couldn’t leave you without a word from your lips.’
She tried to harden her heart. ‘Is that all?’
His hands made a helpless gesture. ‘I’m such a despicable coward. I’ve lived always among dreams. Real life is too hard for me—I’d be better dead.’
‘Why have you come?’ she asked. ‘Have you anything to add to this?’ She held out his letter. ‘Why not leave it at that?’
‘I had to see you,’ he said. ‘I had to ask your forgiveness. I hoped to get here before that thing. Oh, how detestable I am!’
He dropped on to the seat beside her and sat, hunched and shaking, a figure of desolation.
‘Never mind,’ said Sheila firmly. ‘Don’t cry over spilt milk. You’re quite free now to go back to her. And you’ve done me no harm.’
He stammered in amazement. ‘You can say that! Don’t you see how contemptible I am! I would like to kill myself!’
He brooded on that thought. Death was the only escape from his own insufferable egoism. Then he began to perceive that he was extracting enjoyment even from the savour of his own self-loathing. He was rolling the bitterness round on his tongue till it had a certain sweetness for him. He was indulging in an orgy of painful emotions that was delicious to the very egoism it wounded. He was discovering hitherto unplumbed depths in his nature and being fascinated by the stupendous spectacle of his own soul’s suffering. And he knew that the experience was far too morbidly interesting to drive him to suicide.
The perception of his self-pity afflicted Sheila with a new and more sickening pain. Something of this change must have been visible in her face, for with a manifest effort he became calm, and began speaking in more normal tones.