“I should think I had, sitting in this furnace.”
The heat of the dining room oppressed him, but they sat on there after dinner because Prissie loved the heat. Robin’s pale, blank face had a sick look, a deadly smoothness. He had to lie down on the sofa in the window.
When the clock struck nine he sighed and got up, dragging himself as if the weight of his body was more than he could bear. He stooped over Prissie, and lifted her.
“Robin—you can’t. You’re dropping to pieces.”
“I’m all right.” He heaved her up with one tremendous, irritated effort, and carried her upstairs, fast, as if he wanted to be done with it. Through the open doors Harriett could hear Prissie’s pleading whine, and Robin’s voice, hard and controlled. Presently he came back to her and they went into his study. They could breathe there, he said.
They sat without speaking for a little time. The silence of Prissie’s room overhead came between them.
Robin spoke first. “I’m afraid it hasn’t been very gay for you with poor Prissie in this state.”
“Poor Prissie? She’s very happy, Robin.”
He stared at her. His eyes, round and full and steady, taxed her with falsehood, with hypocrisy.
“You don’t suppose I’m not, do you?”