"Hurry up back, then, I want to talk to you," was all he said.
Lettice did not hurry back; she stayed to wash up, a work of supererogation, found half-a-dozen other unnecessary things to do, loitered on the stairs, delayed on the landing. She had at last to force herself to the door against a reluctance like a pain; and then she halted on the threshold. He had fallen asleep.
Lettice crossed the floor with her soft, slow step and stood looking down on him. Awake, except for being thinner, he was not so much changed from his old self; asleep, he showed the ravages of the past twelvemonth—helplessly, openly. Lettice knew without being told that he hated to be watched in his sleep for that very reason, because he could not guard his secrets; yet he trusted himself unreservedly to her. He and his secrets were quite at her mercy. It was too much; he gave too much and he asked too much. So unlike Denis, who asked nothing, took things for granted, never criticized either himself or her! But this alert, restless, observant mind, for ever analyzing and appraising—how was she to cope with it? She felt like a mole dragged into the sunshine.
There was some affinity between them, and she had power over him—yes; but she did not want it. She only longed to creep back underground. She could give him friendship, she could even give him love of the quality she gave to Denis, provided he asked no more; if he did ask more, all her instincts bent away from him towards something very like hostility. What was she going to do, then? Keep her word, that of course; but how? Could she deceive him? She could not; that was just what she found intolerable. But if she did not, would he be satisfied? Or would he actually enjoy holding her against her will? Lettice was not sure. He was not cruel, but he was passionate, and passion is cruel. He made her conscious, always, that he was a man. Entangled in the personal relation, her judgment was all astray.
Well! she supposed she must set her teeth and do the best she could. After all, the fault was hers, not his, the unnatural lack was in her. Remembering little Dorothea's freehearted giving, Lettice despised her own sterility.
But there was a deeper affinity between them than she knew; and he showed it now by answering the call of her presence and waking under her eyes. He woke in terror, with her name on his lips, a cry of agony, which changed, when he saw her, to relief—instantaneous. He turned and hid his face against her, in the gesture of a frightened child. Lettice never forgot that moment. It was a sword through her heart. She drew a deep breath; without impulse, deliberately rather, she put her arm round his shoulders and held him there, strong to comfort. Her face was stern.... Moments passed; little by little the tremors and the quick uneven breathing subsided. He sat up.
"Apologies," he said with a half-laugh, unconcealably shaken, but unashamed.
"Do you often wake like that?" asked Lettice unsmiling.
"Do I? Occasionally. When I get the jim-jams. Yes, I have pretty often lately. It's all your fault, you know."
"My fault?"