He said to her, on the same night, when the house had gone up to its dormitories: "Helen, I've been rather a brute lately. I'm sorry. I'm going to be different."
She said: "I wish I could be different too."
"Different? You different? What do you mean?"
"I wish I could make you fond of me again." He was about to protest with his usual eagerness and with more than his usual sincerity, but she held up her hand to stop him. "Don't say anything!" she cried, passionately. "We shall only argue. I don't want to argue any more. Don't say anything at all, please, Kenneth!"
"But—Helen—why not?"
"Because there's nothing more to be said. Because I don't believe anything that you tell me, and because I don't want to deceive myself into thinking I do, any more."
"Helen!"
She went on staring silently into the fire, as usual, but when he came near to her she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. "I don't believe you love me, Kenneth. Goodness knows why I kiss you. I suppose it's just because I like doing it, that's all. Now don't say anything to me. Kiss me if you like, but don't speak. I hate you when you begin to talk to me."
He laughed.
She turned on him angrily, suddenly like a tiger. "What are you laughing at? I don't see any joke."