He broke into anguished laughter. "No, you wee little thing!" He strained her to him and faltered vehemently: "You generous dear! When I've insulted and bullied you and shouted at you, you ask me if you've hurt me! I wish you had. It would have given me some of the punishment I deserve. Oh, keep me, you wonderful, strong, forgiving dear! Keep me from being a hound, keep me from forgetting—whatever it is we've found out. You've seen what I'm like when I've forgotten it. Oh, love me! Love me!"
"I will, I will!"
They clung together and spent themselves in reconciling kisses.
"It was my fault, too," she whispered. "I was awful hard on you. And maybe I took you up too quick."
"No, it was all my fault," he answered softly. "I was worried and I lost my head."
"Worried? What are you worried about, my darling? You never told me that."
"Oh, there's nothing to tell, really. It's not a definite worry. It's to do"—his dark eyes left her and travelled among the gathering shadows of the room—"with my mother."
If he had kissed her now he would not have found her lips so soft. "Your mother?" she repeated.
"Yes," he said petulantly. It struck her that there was something infantile about his tone, a shade of resentment much as a child might feel against its nurse. "She's been the centre of my whole life. And now ... I don't know whether she cares for me at all. I don't believe she ever cared for anybody but my father. It's puzzling."
His eyes were fixed on the shadows. He had quite forgotten her. She leant back on the pillows, closing her eyes to try and master a feeling of faintness, and stretched out her hand towards his lips.