Then Holton tried to reconstruct at last. “No, you don’t understand. I feel very close to you. I’ve liked this more than any other time, more than with anyone else. But you see I can’t leave what I’m doing; I couldn’t live on you for the rest of my life.”
She sighed. “That’s such a superficial thing; that’s all the surface. When you feel something for another person those things don’t matter.”
“Someday they might. Of course I’m lonely and not very happy. You have to accept that. In a few years I’ll get married and maybe that’ll make it better. I could,” he was speaking slowly now, “marry you. I could do that but you wouldn’t be happy.”
“How do you know I wouldn’t be happy here?”
“You’re different, that’s all. I can’t tell you what the difference is. I don’t know.”
And she couldn’t tell him what the difference was. There was no way to tell.
He put his arms around her in the dark and they relaxed on the bed and she tried to give herself to the moment but she could not: too much had been given already.
“It’s a temptation,” said Holton suddenly.
“What is?” They separated.
“To go to Europe with you, to live with you.”