“But you do know that, don’t you? I didn’t come here for you to do that—that particular kiss....” And she leant back her head and closed her eyes against him. Ivor played nervously with a match for his cigarette—one arm makes striking safety-matches rather difficult, sometimes. He swore a little at the match.
“You see,” whispered the lips of the closed eyes, “your kiss means something. I knew it would ... I knew years and years ago.”
And she jumped up and faced him pitifully. “That’s why I’m making such a fuss about it, don’t you see—Ivor, you fool! For your kiss means all the things I haven’t got left, the lovely things! Oh, I’m not just trying to make a scene, I want you to understand.... I haven’t got one left, my dear, not one....”
He couldn’t deny that—he didn’t know anything about it. She was too serious—but, somehow, nothing light would come from him.
Again she closed her eyes, and her eyebrows contracted, as though with pain; and she gave her head a sudden shake, backwards.... You are a pet, he thought.
“That’s why I so wanted you not to make love to me—you, Ivor! Deep down in my heart I didn’t want you to. For we simply can’t be lovers, you and I. I thought that years ago. I hated you....”
All this ... talk! Why, he wondered, does a woman always pretend to a deep and mysterious knowledge of anything to do with love? He knew, quite clearly, that she had expected him to kiss her—but he also knew, just as clearly, that she was miserably sincere in not having wanted him to kiss her—once he had done it! She made him feel a vulgar beast.
Her eyes were searching his face....
“Poor Ivor!” she cried softly, “I am irritating you, aren’t I?”
“Thoroughly,” he admitted; he smiled a little, self-consciously; he hadn’t wanted to admit it.