I scalded myself with mine in my hurry to take the cup back to the table and to say as I stood there: “You must forgive me if I am impertinent . . . if I am too frank. But Dick hasn’t tried to disguise it—has he? There is something the matter. Can I help?”
(Soft music. Mouse gets up, walks the stage for a moment or so before she returns to her chair and pours him out, oh, such a brimming, such a burning cup that the tears come into the friend’s eyes while he sips—while he drains it to the bitter dregs. . . .)
I had time to do all this before she replied. First she looked in the teapot, filled it with hot water, and stirred it with a spoon.
“Yes, there is something the matter. No, I’m afraid you can’t help, thank you.” Again I got that glimmer of a smile. “I’m awfully sorry. It must be horrid for you.”
Horrid, indeed! Ah, why couldn’t I tell her that it was months and months since I had been so entertained?
“But you are suffering,” I ventured softly, as though that was what I could not bear to see.
She didn’t deny it. She nodded and bit her under-lip and I thought I saw her chin tremble.
“And there is really nothing I can do?” More softly still.
She shook her head, pushed back the table and jumped up.
“Oh, it will be all right soon,” she breathed, walking over to the dressing-table and standing with her back towards me. “It will be all right. It can’t go on like this.”