“What did you do?”
“Oh, we dined at Jules, went to the Empire, had supper at the Carlton, and came home.” He looked at Katherine’s eyes, felt that he was a surly brute and added: “The ballet was called ‘The Pirate’. I thought it was fine, but it was the first one I’d seen—I don’t think Philip cared much for it, but then he’s seen so many in Moscow, where they go on all night and are perfectly splendid.”
Katherine’s hand pressed his shoulder a little, and he, in response, drew closer to her.
“I’m glad Philip was nice to you,” she said, gazing into the fire. “I want you two to be great friends.” There sprang then a new note into her voice, as though she were resolved to say something that had been in her mind a long time. “Henry—tell me—quite honestly, I want to know. Have I been a pig lately? A pig about everybody. Since I’ve been engaged have I neglected you all and been different to you all and hurt you all?”
“No,” said Henry, slowly. “Of course you haven’t ... but it has been different a little—it couldn’t help being.”
“What has?”
“Well, of course, we don’t mean so much to you now. How can we? I suppose what Philip said last night is true, that we’ve been all rather selfish about you, and now we’re suffering for it.”
“Did Philip say that?”
“Yes—or something like it.”
“It isn’t true. It simply shows that he doesn’t understand what we all are to one another. I suppose we’re different. I’ve been feeling, since I’ve been engaged, that we must be different. Philip is so continually surprised at the things we do.”