Jane had hardly spoken to him or looked at him. She was reading an evening paper.
She put it down when he had gone.
'Does Arthur come in often?' she asked me casually, lighting another cigarette.
'No. Sometimes.'
After a minute or two, Jane said, 'Look here, K, I'll tell you something.
I'm not particularly keen on meeting Arthur for the present. Nor he me.'
'That's not exactly news, my dear.'
'No; it fairly stuck out just now, didn't it? Well, the fact is, we both want a little time to collect ourselves, to settle how we stand…. Sudden deaths are a bad jar, K. They break things up…. Arthur and I were more friends than Oliver liked, you know. He didn't like Arthur, and didn't like my going about with him…. Oh, well, you know all that as well as I do, of course…. And now he's dead…. It seems to spoil things a bit…. I hate meeting Arthur now.'
And then an extraordinary thing happened. Jane, whom I had never seen cry, broke down quite suddenly and cried. Of course it would have seemed quite natural in most people, but tears are as surprising in Jane as they would be in me. They aren't part of her equipment. However, she was out of health just now, of course, and had had a bad shock, and was emotionally overwrought; and, anyhow, she cried.
I mixed her some sal volatile, which, I understand, is done in these crises. She drank it, and stopped crying soon.
'Sorry to be such an ass,' she said, more in her normal tone. 'It's this
beastly baby, I suppose…. Well, look here, K, you see what I mean.
Arthur and I don't want to meet just now. If he's likely to come in much,
I must give up coming, that's all.'