He felt then a sudden dismay and fear. Perhaps, after all she was going to dismiss him; he fancied that she was retreating from him—he felt already that she was farther away from him than she had ever been, and, with a desperate urgency, his voice trembling, his hand pressing her arm, he said:
“Katie—Katie—You’re disgusted with me. I can feel it. But you must go on loving me—you must, you must. I don’t care for anything but that. All men have had affairs with women. It’s all dead with me, as though it had been another man. There’s no one in the world but you. I—I—”
His hand shook; his eyes, if she could have seen them, were strained with terror.
She turned to him, put her arms round his neck, drew his head towards her, kissed him on his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks.
“Phil—Phil,” she whispered. “How little you understand. My dear—my dear.”
Then raising her eyes away from him and staring again in front of her, she said:
“But I want to know, Phil. I must know. What was she like?”
“Like?” he repeated, puzzled.
“Yes. Her appearance, her clothes, her hair, everything. I want to be able to see her—with my own eyes—as though she were here....”
He stared at her for a moment—then, very slowly, almost reluctantly, he began his description....