“Do you need that to make yourself secure? If you knew how it hurt! Whatever I’ve done... I haven’t defended myself, have I, Eric? And, whatever you think of me, won’t you say you forgive me, if I tell you that I need it, that it will make a difference to me? Do you want me to feel that I’ve killed your generosity—in addition to everything else?”
“I’ll say it, if it’s any consolation to you.”
“Thank you, Eric. You needn’t be afraid, I’ve had my share of education, too. I didn’t know you were going to be here to-night; I’ve tried not to embarrass you. If it’s any help for you to know where I’m dining and that sort of thing... I’ll do anything I can not to make things harder.”
Eric shook his head quickly and looked up, as George crossed the room. Barbara’s moment of sincerity had passed: she had passed the half-obliterated line between emotion and drama. Already she was weaving a romance about the pair of them: there was to be a life’s passion thwarted, two starved hearts beating in remote loneliness, resignation on her side and chivalry on his, with ingenious romantic appliances to keep the starved hearts starving; they were to spend as much quixotic contrivance on keeping apart as ever a pair of lovers had given to daily clandestine meetings... A sensationalist to the core... The distraction would keep her dramatic sense stimulated for years; in the endless possibilities of make-believe she might forget her tragedy. He would almost have abetted her, if so he might forget the look of tragedy which he had seen in her eyes; but he could not trust her....
“We’ll take our chance,” he said. “I shall possibly be going away fairly soon.”
George was waiting patiently until they had finished.
“I say, Babs, are we doing anything on Thursday?” he asked. “Madame Pinto wants us to lunch, and I said I thought we could.”
She looked at her husband with a smile of gentle reproach:
“Darling George, we’ve got the O’Ranes lunching with us. Am I right in thinking that you’ve forgotten all about them?”
Eric bowed and turned away. “Am I right in thinking...?” It was a familiar trick of speech; Barbara had used it to him on the night of their first meeting nearly four years ago. It hurt him to hear her using it to George, though he did not mind her calling him “darling”. Women were a promiscuous sex, transferring their hearts and bodies as light-heartedly as a servant took a new situation “to better herself”... As he passed out of sound of their voices, he felt that this evening he had had the greatest escape of his life; Barbara would not try to meet him again, and he could keep her at arm’s length, if she did. He only hoped that he would forget that look of tragedy....