‘No!’ she covered her face with her hands. ‘No, Judith, I could never come back here. Everything’s gone all wrong. Everything’s as if—as if it had been poisoned. I must go away and get it straight. Listen.’ She put both arms around Judith’s neck and held her in a hard painful embrace. ‘The things I meant to say,—I don’t think I can say them. I thought I could before I saw you, but now you’re here it doesn’t seem clear any more. I don’t really know what I think—what I mean, and if I tried to explain you might—might not understand. Oh, Judith!’
She began to cry, and stopped herself. ‘There are things in life you’ve no idea about. I can’t explain. You’re such a baby really, aren’t you? I always think of you as the most innocent thing in the world.’
‘Jennifer, you know you can tell me anything.’
Yet she knew, while she pleaded, that she shrank from knowing.
‘Oh yes, it’s true, you understand everything.’ Jennifer tightened her arms desperately and seemed to be hesitating, then said at last: ‘No, I’m in a muddle. I’m afraid. I should explain all wrong, as I always do. But I’ll write to you, darling. I may not write to you for some time: or it may be to-morrow. But I swear I’ll write. And then I’ll explain everything.’
‘And we’ll see each other again, Jennifer? We’ll meet often?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know. It depends,’ she whispered. Her face was still hidden, her arms firm in their strangling grip.
‘Oh yes, yes, Jennifer! Oh please! Why these mysteries? Jennifer—if—if there’s somebody else you’re fond of I don’t mind. Why should it make any difference to you and me? I’m not jealous.’
‘I’ll write to you,’ repeated Jennifer, very wearily whispering.
‘Soon then, soon, Jennifer. Tell me how you are, what you’re going to do. Tell me if you go abroad, who—who you go with. Tell me everything. Because I shall wonder and wonder. I shall imagine all sorts of things.... Jennifer....’