‘So you still come here?’
Knox delayed his question until the waiter had gone away.
Lady Wilding was silent for a moment. Tonight she was not staring out at the harbour. Instead she was looking down into her glass. It held a rich golden liquid.
‘Orange juice,’ she said.
‘I see. A gesture.’
‘Yes. It helps – to make a gesture.’
‘Oh, undoubtedly.’
She said: ‘Did you tell him that you had seen me here?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It would have caused him pain. It would have caused you pain. And he didn’t ask me.’
‘If he had asked you, would you have told him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the simpler one is over things, the better.’
She sighed.
‘I wonder if you understand at all?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You do see that I can’t hurt him? You do see how good he is? How he believes in me? How he thinks only of me?’
‘Oh yes. I see all that. He wants to stand between you and all sorrow, all evil.’
‘But that’s too much.’
‘Yes, it’s too much.’
‘One gets into things. And then, one can’t get out. One pretends – day after day one pretends. And then one gets tired, one wants to shout: “Stop loving me, stop looking after me, stop worrying about me, stop caring and watching.” ’ She clenched both hands. ‘I want to be happy with Richard. I want to! Why can’t I? Why must I sicken of it all?’
‘Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.’
‘Yes, just that. It’s me. It’s my fault.’
‘Why did you marry him?’
‘Oh, that!’ Her eyes widened. ‘That’s simple. I fell in love with him.’
‘I see.’
‘It was, I suppose, a kind of infatuation. He has great charm, and he’s sexually attractive. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘And he was romantically attractive too. A dear old man, who’s known me all my life, warned me. He said to me: “Have an affair with Richard, but don’t marry him.” He was quite right. You see, I was very unhappy, and Richard came along. I – day-dreamed. Love and Richard and an island and moonlight. It helped, and it didn’t hurt anybody. Now I’ve got the dream – but I’m not the me I was in the dream. I’m only the me who dreamed it – and that’s no good.’
She looked across the table, straight into his eyes.
‘Can I ever become the me of the dream? I’d like to.’
‘Not if it was never the real you.’
‘I could go away – but where? Not back into the past because that’s all gone, broken up. I’d have to start again, I don’t know how or where. And, anyway, I couldn’t hurt Richard. He’s already been hurt too much.’
‘Has he?’
‘Yes, that woman he married. She was just a natural tart. Very attractive and quite good-natured, but completely amoral. He didn’t see her like that.’
‘He wouldn’t.’
‘And she let him down – badly – and he was terribly cut up about it. He blamed himself, thought he’d failed her in some way. He’s no blame for her, you know, only pity.’
‘He has too much pity.’
‘Can one have too much pity?’
‘Yes, it makes you unable to see straight.
‘Besides,’ he added, ‘it’s an insult.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It implies just what the Pharisee’s prayer implied. “Lord, I thank Thee I am not as this man.” ’
‘Aren’t you ever sorry for anyone?’
‘Yes. I’m human. But I’m afraid of it.’
‘What harm could it do?’
‘It might lead to action.’
‘Would that be wrong?’
‘It might have very bad results.’
‘For you?’
‘No, no, not for me. For the other person.’
‘Then what should one do if one’s sorry for a person?’
‘Leave them where they belong – in God’s hands.’
‘That sounds terribly implacable – and harsh.’
‘It’s not nearly so dangerous as yielding to facile pity.’
She leaned towards him.
‘Tell me, are you sorry for me – at all?’
‘I am trying not to be.’
‘Why not?’
‘In case I should help you to feel sorry for yourself.’
‘You don’t think I am – sorry for myself?’
‘Are you?’
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Not really. I’ve got all – mixed up somehow, and that must be my own fault.’
‘It usually is, but in your case it may not be.’
‘Tell me – you’re wise, you go about preaching to people – what ought I to do?’
‘You know.’
She looked at him and suddenly, unexpectedly, she laughed. It was a gay, gallant laugh.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know. Quite well. Fight.’