“OH, BY THE WAY,” said Kit, “I’ve been thinking it would be a good idea if I took a fortnight of my holiday when you’re away, if the work lets up. Then we can shut the flat and there won’t be all that nuisance of Elsie sleeping with her mother that we had last time.”
“Of course,” said Janet, “if you like.” Her fingers tightened on the handle of the coffee pot, tilting it. She put it down. Desperately, the sentinel of her tower cried, No Pasaran. “I suppose you haven’t decided yet where you’ll go?”
“Yes, I thought I’d go up to Cumberland. I haven’t been for a couple of years. The Kennards would put me up, I expect.”
All clear! All clear! cried the sentinel; raiders passed! As soon as the danger receded, how easy to be sure it had never been. “Of course,” she said kindly, “that will be lovely for you. I do hope it won’t rain all the time.”
Kit, in the remaining minutes before surgery began, was thinking how little he cared whether it rained or not; whether he walked over the Stye Head Pass in a mackintosh, or sprawled in the sun on Great Gable, sitting, as he liked to sit, on a grassy shelf from which he could watch successions of climbers helping to round away the boot-scraped protuberances of the Napes Needle, or looked from the top of Scawfell at the blue Scottish hills. If these things did not simplify his emotions out of existence, probably he could co-opt some one for an attempt on the Pillar Rock; and he would not, like the man in the play McKinnon had dragged him to, read Dante when he got to the top of it, but lie on his back and slacken his muscles and stare in comfortable vacancy at the clouds.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the heart wears out the breast,
And the soul must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Kit, who did not generalize much, translated this truth into a decision that he needed a bit of a change.
In the early spring—and in the middle, incidentally, of a combined epidemic of influenza and measles—Christie had announced, interleaved with passionate assurances, the reappearance of Maurice. Maurice had been in hospital, after driving a lorry in Spain. The lorry had run backwards down a hill. Maurice was still having massage for his knee, and limped terribly. He had quarrelled with the Anarchists. He was in despair. Kit wouldn’t mind—would he?—if she saw him just once or twice? He had written to ask her, but she would refuse if Kit said no. She promised, truly, faithfully, that everything would be all right.
Kit had written to say that of course he didn’t mind, and had believed it until the moment when the letter slid from his fingers into the unreturning bourne of the pillar-box. The epidemic reached its peak soon afterwards. He did not get an unbroken stretch of free time for three weeks.
In the first week Christie wrote charmingly, protesting fidelity all over again. The protests convinced by their naïve self-congratulation. The second letter contained accounts of two expeditions with Maurice, which were reassuring in their way, but left Kit depressed; also a graphic account of Maurice’s knee, containing three surgical inconsistencies and asking Kit’s opinion of the case. Maurice was so terribly lonely (the letter concluded) that Christie was trying to think whether she shouldn’t introduce him to some nice girl. Did Kit know of any one who would do?
Kit wrote back in the only ten minutes he had to spare next day. He was dog-tired, and his mind ran on measles serum and influenza complications. He never wrote as flexibly as he talked, and was aware of it; to-day’s effort seemed to touch a rock-bottom of flatness, which he tried to enliven by being funny. The result was dismal, but he had no time to write the letter again.
Christie kept silence for nearly a week. Then he received four pages, written apparently in a hurry and late at night. They were disjointed, full of spelling mistakes, heavy erasures, and a vague, chaotic urgency. The gist was that Christie wanted him to come and see her as soon as possible. Everything was so difficult, she was so worried, so unhappy, it was so hard to know what one felt or what one ought to do. If he came quickly, everything would be all right.
The letter came on a Monday. There was no sign of any slackening in the work, and every indication that things would get worse. He had a dozen cases of bronchitis, most of them potential pneumonias. Quite a number of the youngest measles children were critically ill. He and Fraser were both waiving their free afternoons as a matter of course. He wrote back, struggling in time he could not afford with a medium of expression in which he was inexpert, promising to come as soon as he could, next week perhaps. The core of the letter somehow got left out; he had no time to invent ways of clothing it decently, and was ashamed to present it naked. He got up every morning to look at the post, but no answer came.
A period began during which his only peaceful moments were those in which he was too busy, or too exhausted, to think. He worked unflaggingly; he would have made work if none had existed. The patients thought him wonderful; always on the go, they said, always cheerful and time for a word or a smile; they wondered, they said, how he kept it up. His smiles, if they had known it, were tokens of gratitude. Better than drink or dissipation, because no reaction followed, they provided refuge from imagining, and he thanked them in the only way he could. In them he could lose himself, decently and realistically. But at night Maurice returned. He knew Maurice intimately and personally, as lovers in romances used to reconstruct their lady from a miniature and a lock of hair.
The next week, by dint of furious work, and still dogged by the thought of work he might have done, he got off for part of his afternoon. On the way to Paxton he took driving risks about which he preferred afterwards not to think, and got to Brimpton just before four. Christie met him on the steps of the Abbey, dressed to go out. She said, “Kit! Have you come?” and stared at him in blank consternation.
“I said I was coming.” His mind paused, as the body pauses after an injury before the pain begins.
“But you only said you might. You didn’t write or anything.”
“I didn’t have time to. Are you fixed up?”
She fiddled with her bag; her face changing, transparently, from dismay to debate, to hope, to longing calculation.
“Well, yes, at least …” She looked quickly up and down the road. “I really oughtn’t … I mean, I ought to leave a message, or a note, or something.”
She looked up at him. Kit read, correctly, the nature of the appeal in her eyes.
“Note hell,” he said brutally. “Get in the car.” He gripped her by the elbow, bundled her in anyhow, slammed the door and let in the clutch.
She settled herself, with gasps of breathlessness that settled gradually into sighs of content.
“I oughtn’t to do this, really,” she sighed with grateful reproach. “But you didn’t give me a chance. So it’s all right. Darling, I am so glad you came. It keeps coming all over me. Let’s not talk about it, shall we? Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”
Kit asked no questions; partly because he did not want to know, partly because he knew that he would hear about it sooner or later in any case. He was used, by now, to the painful tribute of Christie’s unexpurgated confidence. She told him, not only what women tell their lovers, but also what—he had been accustomed to suppose—they told their most intimate women friends. She seemed to regard both rôles as his natural privilege. He was becoming adaptable. Her trustfulness transformed what, in any one else, would have been wanton cruelty, into a subtle and somehow pathetic compliment. If he ever showed, by accident, that he minded what she told him, she overflowed at once with tender contrition.
“Oh, darling, don’t. You make me feel so mean. I ought not to talk about everything like this. I know it isn’t done. But I didn’t think it would matter to you, because you know I love you best. Besides, it isn’t as if anything had actually happened this time. It never even nearly would, if you were always here.”
“I know,” he said. Distrusting her to the depths of his harassed spirit, he never disbelieved her. Truth flourished in her untended, like a weed, like original sin. The lies which her kindness prompted had the ineffectiveness of half-hearted virtue. It made the taste of everything too keen, bitterness and sweetness alike. After it had most hurt him, he missed it most.
As if he had been thinking aloud, she said, “I’m not like this with any one but you. It isn’t that I don’t want to be honest with them, but somehow there doesn’t seem any point. If I do tell Maurice what I think, he thinks I’m saying something else. Of course you’re nicer than any one else I know, but I don’t think that’s all there is to it. I think it would probably be the same if we were both a lot worse than we are. It’s something we just happen to make together.”
“You mean, like the right combination of colours producing a white light.”
“Yes, that’s exactly it. I don’t know why we do. I just know I couldn’t talk to any one else about you the way I talk to you about other people. It wouldn’t mean anything, if I did.”
“Well, we need something,” said Kit, taking a sandwich (they were having tea in Paxton), “living the way we do.”
Christie took his cup, and refilled it with tea just as he liked it. “I suppose,” she said thoughtfully, “if we hadn’t got it, you’d have chucked me some time ago.”
Kit considered. “Well, I don’t know about some time ago. You’re too good in bed. I should think, taking one thing with another, I’d just about be chucking you now.”
“That’s nice,” said Christie obscurely. “You must have an éclair, they’re like heaven. The coffee ones are the best.”
The evening soared like a rocket to a climax of stars. Christie treated him like a returning victor, to whom banners and flowers are appropriate. The fact that they both knew where she would have been if Kit had arrived half an hour later was immaterial, or, rather, added zest to the proceedings. She celebrated his intervention as simply as if he had plucked her just in time from a runaway train. She didn’t know, she said, what she would do without him.
“I can tell you,” Kit suggested, “if you like.”
“No, honestly. Never any more. I can’t imagine, now, how I ever thought of it. When are you coming again? You know, if nothing else nice had happened to me all my life, it would have been worth being born just to have you.” She kissed him devoutly.
Kit drove back—early, lest more work should have come in—uplifted by a mood whose peculiar quality he did not attempt to explain to himself. It was not concerned much with the past, even the still-warm immediate past, and certainly not with the future. But in the present, he had got rid of his last encumbrances of illusion and wishful thinking, with his own consent. It did not, he found, diminish the beauty or excitement of experience, nor did it increase the pain. What he was enjoying was freedom, after many weeks, from the chronic ache of suppressed truth. He had, strangely enough, never loved Christie more.
That was a week or so ago. The epidemic was just tailing off; it and his own exaltation seemed to lose momentum together. The soul must pause to breathe, and Kit felt the flagging of his own, and dismissed it with a Greek term from a textbook. But the bare sweep of the Screes above Wastwater beckoned peacefully, and as often, now, as the image of Christie’s face.
Next time he saw Christie, while they were walking in the country, he told her he was taking a holiday at Easter time.
She gave a little jump of delight. “But how marvellous. Are you really able to?”
He looked at her doubtfully, not so much hurt as wary lest something hurtful might be coming. “I thought it would be a good time, since you’re fixed up with this Easter School business anyhow.”
“But of course. It’s just right. I never thought you’d make it. Rollo will be pleased. We must go in and tell him.”
“Tell him just what?” asked Kit, bewildered and still cautious. “What difference does it make to Rollo whether I’m away?”
“Tell him you’re coming to the Easter School, of course; you idiot. You are coming, aren’t you?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” He said it as kindly as possible, since she seemed excited. “I’m going to Cumberland.”
“Oh,” said Christie. She slipped her hand out of his, put it in her pocket, and turned to look at something in the hedge. After a pause so long that he had begun thinking about something else, she added deliberately, “I’m so glad. You’ll like that. Shall you climb the mountains? I hope it won’t rain.”
“Christie, what’s the matter?” He reached after her hand, but she moved out of the way.
“Nothing. It’s all right. I knew you wouldn’t come really, of course.”
“But, good God, you didn’t mean it about me coming, did you? I thought that was just what we said to keep people quiet.”
“Yes. Of course it was. Honestly it’s all right. It was only just because you said it like that about having a holiday.”
The whole idea was preposterous, but he wished she had been a little more difficult about it. Her eagerness to conceal her disappointment made him feel guilty in the face of common sense. Arguing with this feeling rather than with her, he said, “I don’t know the first thing about any of it. I’d be like a stuck fish. If any one I knew saw me, they’d think I was breaking up or something. Damn it all, I can’t act.”
“Well, that wouldn’t matter, because only half a dozen out of the bunch ever can. Most of the rest aren’t even anything if they keep their mouths shut. You are beautiful to look at. And your voice is so attractive.”
“Oh, come off it,” said Kit, deeply embarrassed.
“All right, I was only telling you.”
“I don’t even know for certain if I can get away. Easter’s a bad time, and Fraser may not care about it. If the flu flares up again, there won’t be a hope.”
“I know, darling. I do see. Besides, it would do you good to be out of doors. You’ve been looking tired.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Kit, perversely kicking his best argument overboard. “But what would be the point? We’d never have a chance to be alone together.”
“That’s just what I’d been rather clever about. But never mind. I didn’t mean to keep on at you.”
“Don’t be so infuriating,” said Kit unreasonably. “If you’ve got anything up your sleeve, for God’s sake let’s have it.”
“Well, I shall be sleeping in one of the dressing rooms behind the stage. We can’t put a visitor in there, because it’ll have to be converted during the day. I was going to have put you in the single room just above. No one would notice even if they saw you at the top of the stairs, because there’s a wash-place half-way down; and there’ll be no one at the bottom but me. We’d be as safe at night as if we were in a flat of our own. It’s a nice room. In fact, some one who was here last year wrote and asked for it, but I told them it was taken already. I’d better let them have it, now.”
Kit looked round sharply.
“Who?”
“I forget now. One of the schoolmistresses, I think.” Her eyes were as innocent as a baby’s.
“It’s a mad idea,” said Kit, to himself rather than to her. “It’s idiotic.” But his mind had moved on to a track more easily entered than left. He had prevented himself for some time from asking Christie whether Lionel Fell were coming to the Easter School, and tried not to think about it now. He thought of the green broken hump of Great Gable; he thought of the Pillar Rock. But would they be proof against a letter from Christie saying that although everything was very difficult, she was almost sure that it would be all right? If he could be by himself, in the open all day, tire himself out …
“Oh, very well,” he said. “Try everything once, I suppose.”
“Darling, do you mean it? No, it’s a shame. You want to climb.”
“It’ll keep. But look here, you can tell Rollo that if he lands me in for an indecent exhibition with some ghastly woman, or anything like that, I’ll damn well wring his neck.”
“Oh, Rollo will cast you beautifully. He’s marvellous at casting. And you’ll have an audition, of course.” Before he could ask what an audition was, she added anxiously, “Oh, Kit, I forgot to tell you, the single rooms cost a guinea more. If you have one, it will be six guineas a week. Is that all right? Can you afford it?”
“Oh, yes, I should think so.” He put his arm round her. Her hopeless innocence about money, the innocence of some one to whom an extra shilling has always been the margin of luxury, never failed to move him. Good God, he thought with inconsistent anger, hadn’t Maurice or any of those other swine ever given her anything? It occurred to him that this was the only liberty he himself had so far been afraid to take. Suddenly this thought grew all-important, and possessed his mind. He recognized something still virgin in her, something un-possessed.
She had started a long story about last year’s Easter School. He walked beside her, silent, not hearing what she said. The thought obsessed him, absorbing all kinds of material from past crises in its emotional content. He wanted to give her something with a savage, physical intensity, without knowing why. It was the revenge of nature, which he had pitchforked out with reason and toleration. Returning disguised but insistent, it demanded rape.
“You might listen to what I’m saying.” She jogged his arm.
“I was. Come on back to the car. I want to get into Paxton before the shops close.”
“All right. I want to get some toothpaste, too.”
When they were nearly there he said, “We’re going shopping. What would you like?”
She smiled indulgently. “Don’t be silly, darling. You can’t keep on and on giving me things. You’ve just given me a, Christmas present. And you gave me those sweets last time.”
“No, I mean really give you something. What do you want?”
“Nothing, honestly. I mean, I haven’t thought. I never start thinking unless there’s Christmas or a birthday coming.”
“Well, start thinking now.”
Christie withdrew into herself. Her mouth was compressed with the effort of concentration.
“Any ideas?”
“Well, I have thought of one thing. I saw a dear little copy of that picture of sunflowers. I forget who it’s by, a man called Gough or something. The worrying thing is, I can’t remember how much it cost. It might be three and six, or it might be as much as six bob. You’re not to buy it if it’s expensive.”
“Right,” said Kit, smiling into the windscreen.
The picture cost five shillings. Christie hugged the parcel tenderly.
“You are a dear to me, Kit. I’ve wanted this for ages. I believe you’d give me any mortal thing if I asked you. But I feel mean, letting you chuck your money about. What about your own shopping? They’ll be closed in half an hour.”
“Oh, I haven’t much,” said Kit idly. Collars, I think it was. Let’s do a window-crawl.”
They meandered along the lighted plate-glass of the principal street. Christie was constantly interested and excited, but always about something impracticable, like a dinner service or a toy tiger on wheels. The dress shops they passed seemed to be showing nothing but clothes for leisured women, statuesque evening gowns or embroidered house-coats sweeping to the heels. Kit fretted impatiently while Christie criticized them with keen, but entirely abstract, interest.
“Isn’t that armchair lovely?” She paused before a huge upholstered throne of rose brocade. “So voluptuous.”
“Have you got an armchair in your room?” asked Kit with studied unconcern. His heart beat thickly, as if he were planning a crime.
“Oh, yes, a quite decent basket one. But I always sit on the bed. If I had a house I’d have a sort of semicircular divan thing going all round the fire.” She passed on. The next shop was a furrier’s.
“I wonder,” Christie said, “why they never make tiger-skin coats. Don’t you think one would look rather marvellous? On a chic woman, you know.”
“Yes,” said Kit inattentively. On the other side of the window was a loose swinging coat of silky beaver. He recognized the shape as almost exactly that of the tweed coat Christie was wearing; it was shabby, and had never been a very good one, but it suited her perfectly.
“You’d look nice,” he said cleverly, “in a coat like that.”
Christie turned from the leopard-skin jacket which had caught her eye.
“The one in the corner,” he said, “I mean.”
“Yes, wouldn’t I?” said Christie, pleased. “If I’d gone to be a White Slave with Mr. Cowen, I expect I’d have had a fur, coat. If not several. But I suppose in Buenos Aires it’s too hot to wear them.” She looked at the coat again. Kit, watching her face hungrily, saw at last what he had been looking for; an inner glow of desire, contemplative, quite remote from aspiration, like the desire of a practical child for the moon.
The price-ticket showed. It was forty guineas; more than he had spent on a luxury in his life, or could reasonably afford. He could do it, though, if he made the car last another year; it wasn’t too bad. He knew as he made the calculation, that it was purely formal. He would have had this if it had meant going short of clothing.
“Do you mind if we go in a minute?” he said. “I’ve just remembered, there’s something I’ve got to see about here.”
“All right, I’ll wait and look in the window.”
“No, come in with me. I might want some advice.”
“If you like.” He saw a little hurt look in her eyes which she concealed as soon as its first surprise had gone. He had said the first thing that came into his head, and realized too late that she must suppose he was doing an errand for his wife. Anxiety to make this up to her tangled itself confusedly with his other emotions. They went in.
The shop had concealed lighting and a thick pile carpet, and its atmosphere was tinged by the passage of expensive scents. A lithe saleswoman, with platinum hair of incredible intricacy, swam across to them like a black velvet mermaid. Kit was seized with stage-fright, and thrust out his jaw to conceal it. Janet had never taken him buying clothes.
“Can I help you, madam?”
Christie indicated Kit with a glance, and began edging away, pretending to look at some stoles on a stand. The plushy texture of everything in the shop made her tweed coat look rough and thin. Kit cleared his throat.
“Could we see the coat at the left of the window? The …” Had he been wrong about its being beaver? There was some other sort of fur which looked rather the same. To say “The brown one” would, he supposed, be beneath contempt. Christie would know; but she had wandered off. He made a gesture, like a man not accustomed to wasting words.
“The brown beaver swagger coat? Certainly. Madam will like this coat. It’s a charming little model. It only arrived yesterday.” She drew back the brocade curtain that divided the window from the shop. As she went, Christie happened to turn round. He raised his eyebrow to beckon her over.
“If Madam will step into the fitting room?” The saleswoman had the coat over her arm. She was drawing another curtain, showing more concealed lights and a pier-glass. Christie looked up at him, waiting for him to clear up whatever misunderstanding had arisen.
“Come along,” he said.
She walked in, patiently puzzled. When the saleswoman took off her coat and lifted the fur one, she submitted in a kind of daze.
“There, sir? Don’t you think it suits Madam to perfection? And the colouring, of course, exactly right.”
“Do you like it?” Kit said.
Christie had been looking at herself in the glass, with passive wonder, as if she were admiring some unusual effect produced by chance phenomena, such as frost crystals. When he spoke, she looked up quickly at his face. Her own was a blur of startled bewilderment; he could see that she had been asking herself if he had embarked on some elaborate piece of fun, in which she was supposed to be backing him up. At his smile her eyes grew frightened, like a colt’s when one dangles a bridle before it. She looked round at the saleswoman, waiting for her to go away so that she could ask him what it was all about.
“Well, do you like it?” he asked again.
“Yes, of course, it’s a beautiful coat.” The saleswoman beamed. Christie added, silly with nervousness, “It makes you want to stroke it all the time.”
“Good,” said Kit to the saleswoman. “We’ll have this one, then.”
“Certainly, sir. Madam will find this a most satisfactory coat. It’s a quite exceptional little model. We shan’t be repeating it. Where may I have it sent?”
Kit turned deliberately away, so that he could not see Christie, nor the reflection of her face in the glass. “We’ll take it with us,” he said doggedly. “Now.”
“Er—yes, sir. If you would just step this way?”
Kit walked out of the fitting room without looking back. While he was establishing confidence in his cheque he tried to make his cardiac rhythm settle down. What was there, he said to himself, to get in such a state about? A thing every one did. He walked, with defiant firmness, back to the middle of the shop.
Christie was going through, in her old tweed coat. It looked thinner than ever after the soft pile of the fur. Her face was quite white. She walked without looking at him towards the door.
“Miss Bennett, will you pack this coat? Madam is taking it with her.”
“Don’t bother to pack it. We’ll take it as it is.” He took it from the assistant and threw it over his arm, overtaking Christie just as she reached the door. The saleswoman bowed them out of it, and, after they had gone, looked after them with raised eyebrows through the plate-glass.
Christie had pushed her hands into her tweed pockets. She walked on for a few yards looking straight ahead, then said “Thank you” in a small expressionless voice, without turning round.
“What’s up?” asked Kit defiantly, trying to draw level. She kept half a pace ahead; the coat made him bulky in a crowd. He cannoned into some one, swore silently, apologized, and got up to her elbow. “Don’t you like it?”
“I like it awfully. It was very—kind of you to give it me. I’m sorry I was funny about it, but I was surprised. Can we go back to the car now?”
“We’re on our way. Just round the next corner.”
The car park was illuminated by one of those arcs which are supposed, for some reason, to resemble daylight. Under its ghastly glare Christie’s face had the pallor of the dead. When he sat down beside her he could feel her shaking. “You’re cold,” he said roughly, and threw the coat over her knees.
“Thank you. It is rather cold.”
He edged the car out, reversing less accurately than usual. While they were driving through Paxton, he made the traffic an excuse for not looking round. In the country roads they drove on still in silence. He glanced round once, to see Christie staring through her own reflection in the windscreen. A few minutes later he stopped the car on a grass verge beside the road.
“Well? If anything’s the matter, say so.”
“Why should anything be the matter?” Christie looked out of the far window. “I’m a very lucky girl. I’ve just been given a fur coat.”
“Well, what are you being like this for? I wanted to give it you … I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Did you? I suppose that was why you went about it the way you did.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he said obstinately.
“It was.”
“Christie, look here.” The lights on the dashboard glimmered up into her face. He saw that her lip was pulled in to keep it from trembling. “No, but, Christie. Come here.”
“Oh, don’t.” She pushed him away.
“Stop being such a fool,” he said, suddenly angry. “Come here.”
“Let me go!” She twisted, furiously, in his arms. One of her fists, clenched to push him off, glanced up and struck him on the mouth. She stopped struggling.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” she said unsteadily.
“It’s all right.” His lip was cut somewhere inside; he swallowed the blood till it stopped.
“Did I hurt you?”
“It isn’t anything.”
“Kit, are you mad or what? How could you do it like that? Not asking me, or anything. And all in front of that beastly woman, so that I couldn’t say I minded. Dragging me into a rich shop, all popeyed and not knowing what the hell was happening and wearing a frock with a darn in it, and buying me a fur coat. A fur coat. I shouldn’t think they’ve stopped laughing yet.”
“I don’t think it’s all that funny.”
“Don’t you? They will. Their customers bring in quite a good class of bird.”
“I’m sorry it annoyed you. I hoped it wouldn’t. Don’t you want it, then?”
“Of course I don’t want it. Stop the cheque and send it back. Give it to your wife. Give it to any one. … I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be rude. But why did you do it to-day—just this evening, when everything was so nice? And you’d just—” She felt about in the car round her feet. “It’s gone!”
“What’s the matter? Lost your bag?”
“No. My picture of the sunflowers. I’ve left it in that awful shop. Now I haven’t got even that. And I did love it so.” He saw that she was beginning to cry.
“Here, for God’s sake,” said Kit. Her tears roused something primitive in him. He pulled her round, using his strength less carefully this time, so that she stopped fighting with a little gasp of pain. “I’m sick of this. Now shut up.”
“Please, don’t, Kit. Don’t be unkind to me.”
“Unkind?” he said slowly. “I could choke you.”
He pinned her arms behind her and kissed her, painfully and unsparingly. She cried out and struggled helplessly at first, then lay still, with wide-open eyes, in his arms.
“God damn you,” he said, his breath coming in jerks, “you’ve never done anything but lie to me. I suppose you talk to every one the same. It must be damned funny for you, telling them all that none of the others count and they’re the one. This proves it. Doesn’t it?” He shook her unresisting body. “You can’t even take anything from me. You hand me off as if I were some one who’d tried to pick you up in the street. And then you’ve the bloody nerve to make out I’m more to you than this Maurice swine, or Fell, or God knows who. If it keeps me amused it’s good enough, isn’t it? You say anything. You don’t care.”
He kissed her again, forcing her head back, and let her go. There was a silence.
“Kit. Your lip’s bleeding.”
She gathered herself up from the corner into which he had thrust her, and, fumbling a little, fished out a scrap of handkerchief, with eau de cologne on it, from the neck of her dress.
“Here,” she said.
She wiped his cheek, and held the handkerchief to his mouth. He bent his head lower, over her hands. Reaching her arms out quickly she caught it against her breast.
“Please, Kit. Dear Kit.” He could feel her breath rise and fall with the rhythm of her words, and a little catch in the pauses between. “Listen, I didn’t mean it. Truly. I’ve been a filthy pig to you. It’s a beautiful coat. It was marvellous of you to give it me. I’ve been looking at it in the window for weeks and wanting it every day. I swear I have. Say it’s all right.”
“What’s the use,” said Kit under his breath. “You’re just being kind. As usual. What’s the use of pretending. You didn’t want to take it, and the reason is you don’t give a damn.”
“Don’t. It wasn’t that. Please; you’re making me cry.”
“Of course it was. Cry over Maurice. I can do without.”
“Oh, Kit, stop. Just stop for a minute.” She throttled his face against her, so that he breathed with difficulty. “Don’t you see, I thought you wanted to stop loving me.”
“You’re crazy,” he said into the stuff of her dress.
“Why?” You said you’d have chucked any one else by now. I’ve let you down twice. I thought you’d done it to show me where I got off. Just another bit of fluff.”
Kit twisted his head to look up at her. He gave a blurred grin, which hurt his mouth. “Fluff?” he said. “What a hope.”
“Say you see. Say it’s all right.”
“All right?” He turned his face out of sight. “It’s never all right. I lie awake wondering if you know what I look like when I’m not here. Sometimes I think I’d like to mark you so you’ll remember.”
“You can if you like. Anything. I wish you would. I wish I were dead.”
“No, you’d better not die.” He smiled, his face still hidden. “I couldn’t come and haul you back from there. While there’s life there’s hope, I suppose.”
“You’re bleeding on my dress. Oh, God, I do love you so. Don’t ever leave me.”
“Not till you say.”
“Oh, that’s no use. I say anything. Don’t leave me ever.”
“All right. Look out, don’t put that bloody handkerchief on your face. Mine’s here somewhere.”
“I’ve stopped now.” She attended to her face, inaccurately, by the green dashboard light, “My lovely coat. I shall wear it always. Even in Buenos Aires. I’m going to put it on now. Where is it?”
“God knows. There’s something round my feet.”
They picked it up, and in the semi-darkness brushed cigarette-ash and dust out of its folds.
“I’m going to make this all up to you. At the Easter School we’ll have a heavenly time. No one bothering us all night.”
“The Easter School? Good Lord, I’d forgotten about that.” He helped her into the coat. “All right, I suppose I’ll come if you can get the room. But mind you tell Rollo I’m not going to be let in for any damned love scenes, or anything like that. Couldn’t get the stuff across if my life depended on it. Don’t forget to tell him, will you?”
“No,” said Christie, snuggling her face into the coat to hide a smile. “I’ll remember very carefully.”