He prowled about; and then he stood by the window, with his back to her.
“Do you remember,” her voice came dimly to him, “one night ages ago when I told you that I wasn’t really natural with you, that I was always on my best behaviour with you? And I scarcely knew you then....”
He came darkly beside her.
“The point is,” he said, “that you are only natural with me, and unnatural with the others. Exactly....”
“Maybe,” she said—and smiled up at him mischievously. And he smiled too, but the gloom was deep in him to-day. He sat on a chair at the foot of the bed.
“Virginia,” he appealed, “I don’t like all this.... It’s rotten.”
“What’s rotten?”
“Now don’t be silly, dear! This Tarlyon and Marlay business, of course—husband and lover—and you in between—and Ann Chester in Bond Street....”
“Nasty four-sided triangle,” he said.
“But I’m not in between, silly!” she cried sharply. “I’m with you. What has come over you to-day—you’re getting quite gaga, Ivor!”