Jan very rarely cried. When she did it hurt fiercely and absorbed all her attention. She was crying now as if she would never stop. If people seldom cry it has a devastating effect on their appearance when they do. Jan's eyelids were swollen, her nose scarlet and shiny, her features all bleared and blurred and almost scarred by tears.
Someone touched her gently on the shoulder, and she looked up.
"My dear," said Peter, "you must not cry like this. I was losing my temper—that's why I went off."
Jan sprang to her feet and flung her arms round his neck. She pressed her ravaged face against his: "I'll do anything you like," she whispered, "if you'll only like it. I can't stand by myself any more."
This was true, for as she spoke her knees gave under her.
Peter held her close. Never had Jan looked less attractive and never had Peter loved her more, or realised so clearly how dear and foolish and wise and womanly she was.
"You see," she sobbed, "you said yourself everyone must do his job, and I thought——"
"But surely," said Peter, "I am your job—part of it, anyway."
Jan sobbed now more quietly, with her head against his shoulder.
Tony and William came and looked in at the window.