"That wasn't the worst dream. The third was the worst. You were in a dreadful, dangerous place. Something awful was happening, and you wanted me, and I couldn't get to you."
"No, that wasn't the worst dream. I did want you, and you knew it."
She thought: "He cares. He doesn't want to care, but he does. And he trusts me. I shall have to tell him …"
"There's something," she said, "I've got to tell you."
* * * * *
He must have known. He must have guessed.
He had listened with a gentle, mute attention, as you listen to a story about something that you remember, that interests you still, his eyes fixed on his own hands, his clear, beautiful face dreamy and inert.
"You see," he said, "you did trust me. You wouldn't tell me all that if you didn't."
"Of course I trust you. I told you because you trusted me. I thought—I thought you ought to know. I daresay you did know—all the time."
"No. No, I didn't. I shouldn't have believed it was in you."