“And what’s your attitude now?” She laughed again. “That you don’t feel like a rooster any more?”
“I’ll be glad to answer that question, Delia, in the living room.” Her head came up sharply.
“You don’t have to answer any questions,” she said. She got up and strolled past him. “In your living room or anywhere else.” As he shut the bedroom door and turned to her, she said, “You really don’t like me?” almost wistfully.
“I like you very much, Delia. That’s why you mustn’t come here.”
“But you just said in there―”
“That was in there.”
She nodded, but not as if she really understood. She went to his desk, ignoring the mirror above it, and picked up one of his pipes. She stroked it with her forefinger. He concentrated on her hands, the skin glowing under the sheer nylon gloves.
He made an effort. “Delia―”
“Aren’t you ever lonely?” she murmured. “I think I die a little every day, just from loneliness. Nobody who talks to you really talks. It’s just words. People listening to themselves. Women hate me, and men... At least when they talk to me!” She wheeled, crying, “Am I that stupid? You won’t talk to me, either! Am I?”
He had to make the effort over again. It was even harder this time. But he said through his teeth, “Delia, I want you to go home.”