And all that he said was, "I don't care." He said it to Desmond, and he said it to himself.
The funny thing was that he did not care. He was as miserable as it was well possible to be, but he didn't really care. He was not even surprised. It was as if the knowledge of it had been hiding in the back of his head behind all the ideas.
And yet he couldn't have known it all the time. Either it must have gone away when his ideas went, or he must have been trying not to see it.
She had slipped from his arms and stood before him, dabbing her mouth and eyes now and then with her pocket-handkerchief, controlling herself, crying quietly.
She knew, what had not dawned on Nicky yet, that he didn't love her. If he had loved her he would have cared intolerably. He didn't care about Headley Richards because he didn't care about Desmond any more. He was only puzzled.
"Why did you do it?"
"I can't think why. I must have been off my head. I didn't know what it was like. I didn't know. I thought it would be wonderful and beautiful. I thought he was wonderful and beautiful."
"Poor little Desmond."
"Oh, Nicky, do you think me a beast? Does it make you hate me?"
"No. Of course it doesn't. The only awful thing is--"