"Am I--spoiling it?"
"Yes. You're spoiling it damnably."
"I'm sorry, Desmond. I didn't mean to. I thought--" But he hadn't the heart to say what he had thought.
She looked at him and knew that the moment was coming.
It had come.
She turned away from the table where the Moving Fortress stood, threatening her with its mimic guns, and reminding Nicky of the things she most wanted him to forget. She withdrew to her crouching place at the other end of the studio, among the cushions.
He followed her there with slow, thoughtful steps, steps full of brooding purpose and of half-unconscious meaning.
"Nicky, I'm so unhappy. I didn't know it was possible for anybody to be so unhappy in this world."
She began to cry quietly.
"Desmond--what is it? What is it? Tell me. Why can't you tell me?"