“Well, I must be going.”  Mortimer spoke doubtfully.  There was a pause.  Then Elaine pulled herself together.

“Why?”

“I have so much to do.”

“It was so nice of you to come and see me.”

“It was so nice of you to let me come.  Please remember your promise to let me know when you come back.”

“Of course.”  He was gone.

Wearily she shut her eyes.  “Do you remember the time when Mortimer was charming?”

“Indeed I do; he was quite delightful till he fell in love with you.  He is really a warning against loving.”

“You hardly heed it, do you?” Her voice was very bitter.  How he hated the entry of the acidulated tragic into all their talks.

“Perhaps not.”  He felt guilty, knowing how much he was hurting her.  “After all you cannot ask me to model myself on the man who bores you most in the world.”

She smiled.  “What a good reason for not loving me!”

“The best!” He was smiling his enchanting, flattering smile at her—­the smile that always seemed to draw you into the Holy of Holies of his confidence.

“I may be going away to-morrow,” she said.

“May you?”

“But I shall be back on Thursday.  Shall we dine together that night?”

“I am dining with a Russian friend of mine who is passing through London.”

“Friday, then?”

“Friday I am going to the country for the week-end.”

“Then it will have to be Monday.”

“Yes, I am afraid so.”

“Afraid that you will have to dine with me?”

“How civil you are!”

There was a pause.  She wished she could keep all the acid out of her voice.  He thought how tiresome women were, always wanting to know just what you were going to do.

“Bill,” she said, holding out her hand, which he took rather perfunctorily.  He felt like a dog that knows exactly which trick follows what word of command, but as, from force of habit, he invariably became lover-like when he was absent-minded, he stroked her arm with a significant caressing gesture that filled her with joy.

“Are you glad I love you?” she murmured.

“Of course.”

“There is an intelligent woman,” he thought, “who has had hundreds of men in love with her, making a demand for verbal assurances that can’t possibly add anything to her peace of mind.  Either they are true and superfluous, or they are false and transparently unconvincing.”

“Bill,” she said, reading his thoughts, “you can’t understand my wanting mere words, can you?”

“No,” he said, “not you, who know so exactly what they mean.”

“Nevertheless, they are sometimes vaguely comforting and reassuring—­a sort of local anaesthetic.”  He loved her insight, her curious layers of detachment.

“Bill,” she murmured, “I haven’t seen you for ages.”

“Not since two this morning.”