“Until what?”
“Until you’re tired of me.”
He did not answer, and she went over to him and sat down at his feet, her head resting on his knee. It was preferable to her to sit so, her face hidden from him; eyes are traitors oftentimes.
“Always together,” she went on, “how good that would be for me; for me. But, George, I don’t think it would be good for us both.”
“You mean what?”
“Why this, dear. The woman depends upon the man, always wants him near her if not actually with her. Men, I think, are different; they only depend upon us sometimes, and then they come to us.”
“Then you don’t know what I know, dear. You’ve taught me to depend upon you—always, altogether, all day long. While I was waiting for you just now, I was mad because the thought entered my head that perhaps you did not really love me very much, after all.”
“What a silly thought! But I’m glad it hurt you; isn’t that horrid of me?”
He leaned down and kissed her upturned face.
“Well,” he said, “what about Rottingdean?”