Then she remembered. Of course, she would have to tell him.
She could feel the jerk and throb in John's breathing, measuring off the moments of his silence. Her thoughts came and went. "When he says he cares for me I shall have to tell him"—"This is going on for ever. If he cared for me he would have said it before now."—"It doesn't matter. He can care or not as he likes. Nothing can stop my caring."
Then she was aware of her will, breaking through her peace, going out towards him, fastening on his mind to make him care; to make him say he cared, now, this minute. She was aware of her hands, clenched and unclenched, pressing the sharp edge of the seat into their palms as she dragged back her will.
She was quiet now.
John was looking at his own loose clasped hands and smiling. "Yes," he said, "yes. Yes." It was as if he had said, "This will go on. Nothing more than this can ever happen. But as long as we live it will go on."
She had a sense almost of relief.
"Charlotte—"
"John—"
"You asked me why I came here. You must have known why."
"I didn't. I don't."