“Is the brute fed?” she asked.
He nodded, smiling; and she lit a cigarette for him. Then, as she loved to do, she came and sat on his knees. She was very light. She leaned back in his arms with a sigh of delicious happiness.
“Say something nice to me,” she murmured.
“What shall I say?”
“You might by an effort of imagination say that you rather liked me.”
“You know I do that.”
He had not the heart to tell her then. He would give her peace at all events for that day, and perhaps he might write to her. That would be easier. He could not bear to think of her crying. She made him kiss her, and as he kissed her he thought of Mildred and Mildred’s pale, thin lips. The recollection of Mildred remained with him all the time, like an incorporated form, but more substantial than a shadow; and the sight continually distracted his attention.
“You’re very quiet today,” Norah said.
Her loquacity was a standing joke between them, and he answered:
“You never let me get a word in, and I’ve got out of the habit of talking.”