I did not know what to say and yet I did not like to leave her so obviously wretched.
“Shall I light the gas?” I asked.
“No,” came the answer, “I like the dark.”
“Do you mind if I water the cyclamen? They’re dying.”
“I do. I want them to die.”
She clasped her hands under her head and continued to gaze at the ceiling. I moved to the door and then paused.
“Can I do anything for you?”
“Yes—” she shifted her glance and looked at me from beneath lowered lids. I again received the impression I had had the evening when I hooked her dress—that I was suddenly removed to an illimitable distance from her, had diminished to an undecipherable speck on her horizon. Never before had I met anybody who could so suddenly and so effectively strike from me my sense of value and importance.
“You can do something I’d like very much—go,” the voice was like a breath from the arctic.
I went, more amazed than angry. On the landing I stood wondering. What had I done to her? If I hadn’t been so filled up with astonishment I might have laughed at the contrast between my recent satisfaction in my mission and my inglorious dismissal.