He was sitting at the writing-table. He wore no tie, and his shirt was open at the neck; his sleeves were rolled up and his hair was standing on end. He looked tired: his face was more sallow than usual, and his lips drooped. The sunlight came into the room through the lowered red blinds, heavy and dark, and as if with a sinister watchfulness. Values were not normal in this queer house light. It altered the character of the friendly and familiar room, and gave to the lonely-looking figure of Roddy an unreal significance and remoteness; gave it terror, almost, and strangeness. The living light seemed to make the blood beat in time with its own dark-blooded feverish pulse.
‘Nice of you to come, Judy.’ His voice made him utterly unapproachable. ‘How cool you look. Did you enjoy your picnic? I should have thought it was much too hot to be comfortable anywhere.’
‘It was horrid without you, Roddy.’
‘Nonsense. You didn’t miss me at all.’ His smile was bland and cold.
‘Didn’t I? Didn’t I? Roddy—it was all spoilt for me when they told me you weren’t well. I couldn’t bear to think of you alone with a headache on a day like this.’
‘Oh, the headache’s gone. It wasn’t much. My own stupid fault.’
‘Are you sure it’s gone? You don’t look very well.’
He laughed.
‘I’m all right. I can’t think why you should be so concerned about me.’
He was not going to allow you the satisfaction of sympathising with him.