"I ask you to. What difference would it make to you?"
Eric fumbled industriously with a cigarette.
"It so happens that I've never kissed any one," he said, "except my mother and sister, of course." Then, as she sat hungrily reproachful, he repeated: "What difference would it make?"
"You wouldn't understand …" she sighed. "And yet I thought you would. Where did you get that tray from, Eric? You've never been to India, have you?"
"It was given me by an uncle of mine. Lady Barbara—If it will give you any satisfaction.…"
He kissed her forehead with shame-faced timidity and became discursively explanatory.
"The candle-sticks were looted during the Commune," he began hurriedly. "I was given them as a house-warming present. The clock …"
Barbara was wandering listlessly round the room and paying little attention to what he was saying. She explored the book-cases, ransacked the writing-table and looked curiously at the horse-shoe paper-weight.
"You can give this to me, Eric," she suggested over her shoulder.
"I'm afraid it was a present. Given me on my first night."