His mood was verging towards laughter. His face broke up teasingly as he finished speaking and turned to look at her. But she averted her face, drearily pondering.
Why had he spoken like that? A self-contempt so settled, so hopeless.... He had seemed to be warning her to keep away from him for her own sake.
‘It’s no good,’ she said suddenly, involuntarily.
‘What’s no good?’
‘You’re what I choose to think you are. There’s no point in heaping yourself with abuse. You can’t make me dislike you; you can only make me sad. But I suppose that gives you pleasure.’
He was silent. She went on tremulously,
‘And when you—when people say they don’t feel or care—that they’re no good—it only makes me think—I could show them how to feel and care. I could make them happy. I could look after them. I dare say you know that’s—the effect it has on me. That’s why you say it.’
He was still silent. She leaned her head forward against the wall and felt tears smart under her lids.
He seemed to be musing, his eyes fixed on the fire, his hands held out to it.
‘Are your hands still cold?’ she said wearily. ‘Get them warm before you go.’