Natalie's room was dark when he went in. He hesitated. Then he heard her in bed, sobbing quietly. He was angry at himself for his impatience at the sound. He stood beside the bed, and forced a gentleness he did not feel.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“No, thank you.” And he moved toward the lamp. “Don't turn the light on. I look dreadful.”
“Shall I ring for Madeleine?”
“No. Graham is bringing me a sleeping-powder.”
“If you are not sleepy, may I talk to you about some things?”
“I'm sick, Clay. My head is bursting.”
“Sometimes it helps to talk out our worries, dear.” He was still determinedly gentle.
He heard her turning her pillow, and settling herself more comfortably.
“Not to you. You've made up your mind. What's the use?”