To judge by appearances, Eric had paid dearly for his goddess’ kiss.
“They feel things more intensely,” I continued, “than dull, matter-of-fact people like me.”
Barbara made no answer for several minutes; then she looked straight ahead and asked:
“Wouldn’t you feel it as much if you lost me?”
“I should feel it more than anything in the world.”
“It’s broken Eric. He’ll never be mended. But it wouldn’t break you?”
Faint though the challenge was, I fancied, for the first time in my life, that Barbara was trying to drag me into a ‘scene’.
“We won’t talk about it,” I said.
“I don’t think anything would break you. And you may take that how you like.”
The words may have been her tribute to flint-like resolution or her criticism of wooden insensibility. The way that I decided to take them was in silence. Barbara hid her face in the great nosegay of carnations which she always carried, then held them out, like an impulsive child, for me to smell. As she walked, slender, tall and radiant, into the house, I felt that this was the day which I had waited fourteen months to see dawning.