That was it then: she had been a new sensation: one that had quickly palled, because she had been so swiftly, so entirely yielded up to him. She should have whetted his appetite by offering only a little at a time and then withdrawing it: so, he might still be desirous of her. Instead she had satiated him at the outset.
She would know better next time.... But there would be no next time. Instead, there was Martin now who said:
‘Won’t you kiss me?’
She looked at him, aching with tears that were like an inward bleeding; and put her lips on his cheek for half a second.
‘Listen, Martin.’ She took his hand and started to speak hurriedly, for fear of more kissing. ‘About that truth business. What was I going to say....’ She steadied her voice. ‘Yes. If you tried to—compel the truth you’d expect a lie, wouldn’t you? That’s logic. I’d always expect a lie anyway. I mean ... I shouldn’t be at all surprised by it. I’d say it was my fault for not leaving you alone—not letting you be free enough—I’d think: well, I tried to coerce him, so he chose to deceive me. He was quite right.’
‘A lie’s a lie,’ said Martin obstinately.
‘A lie’s a—What does that mean? It doesn’t mean anything. Unless you believe God watches and writes down in his notebook: Martin Fyfe told a lie on Monday. If this goes on he won’t get his harp. Do you? Truth! What’s truth? Why, half your so-called truths are built on lies. You can scarcely distinguish. I could—I bet I could—act a lie to you all my life and you’d never know it. Be a lie.’
He flushed swiftly at the last words and said in a stiff way:
‘I daresay you could. You’re clever enough for anything and I’m a fool. But don’t try, please....’
‘But there must be no compulsion, Martin!’ she insisted, horribly. ‘You wouldn’t try—to get at me—would you? You’d let me be, by myself? If you ever forced me when I was unwilling I’d tell lies and lies and congratulate myself for it. And I’d never forgive you.’