Tom watched sharply without heightening the look of his eyes. She had no idea whence had come his thoughts.
“No,” he ventured. “That is proof, I suppose, that I am touched myself? It attracts me rather. Of course, not weariness alone.”
Mrs. Duffield was weary: endlessly weary. Often she flung herself to bed with a horror of the needs of her toilet. Often she awoke in the morning with the demands of getting up a mountain in her path. She took Tom’s words to herself. She would not have to grimace her weariness away. It would be pleasure to be with him.
Soon they were friends. When he came in to her, she thrust out an arm in greeting, and did not budge from her lounge.
“Make yourself nice and at home; or I’ll have to get up and do it for you. I’m so comfy!”
Her weariness went before her admission of it with him. He stood over her; she was aware that his eyes could see within the negligent folds of her flimsy housegown. What did it matter? They were friends. Once she said:
“Make believe this is an evening dress. Then the décolleté won’t shock you.”
“Then also, it won’t interest me,” said Tom.
She needed to know everything about him: that she might help him.
“I’ve made up my mind on that!”