Richard would take hansoms. You couldn't stop him. Perhaps he was afraid if you walked too far you would drop down dead. When it was all over your soul would still drive about London in a hansom for ever and ever, through blue and gold rain-sprinkled days, through poignant white evenings, through the streaming, steep, brown-purple darkness and the streaming flat, thin gold of the wet nights.
They were not going to have any more tiring parties. There wasn't enough time.
When she opened her eyes he was sitting on the chair by the foot of the couch, leaning forward, looking at her. She saw nothing but his loose, hanging hands and straining eyes.
"Oh, Richard—what time is it?" She swung her feet to the floor and sat up suddenly.
"Only nine."
"Only nine. The evening's nearly gone."
* * * * *
"Is that why you aren't sleeping, Richard? … I didn't know. I didn't know I was hurting you."
"What-did-you-think? What-did-you-think? Isn't it hurting you?"
"Me? I've got used to it. I was so happy just being with you."