Kind Are Her Answers Read Free

inflict it was the final thing. To-night, thinking it over, he knew they were only part of her defence against reality, and was glad not to have torn it from her. She was, he understood, insufficient to life without it.
    He had perceived, too, the secret fear she had not admitted to herself, that she should go too far and lose him. He felt it in the little crises and stresses, leading nowhere out of nothing, with which she tested him. She had become an artist in evolving and justifying them, seeming to find in them both reassurance and a drug-like stimulation. On Kit the effects, and the effort of concealing them, had often been devastating. He had always been unable to tell her that it was only at such times, in the emotional turmoil they produced, that he sometimes wanted other women. He had done nothing about it, even when, as had happened once or twice in the last few months, they had rather evidently wanted him.
    But now, as he leaned in the window, he did not consciously recapitulate these things. They were no more than the background of a mood, and it was the mood which engaged his mind because the rest was weary with custom while this was new. He thought with relief that his real life would never be conditioned by someone else again. It was no way to live: one should rest on one’s own centre.
    He must be careful with Janet, he thought. She must never know these discoveries he had made about himself and her. He could be better to her now that he was free of her. He felt possessed suddenly by a great kindness for her. It was really a more elementary emotion, like the diffused pleasure a climber feels after negotiating a difficult traverse; but he was not acutely analytical of himself, and let the kindness go at that. What was it he had thought yesterday of getting her—for her room, was it, or the garden? He would remember in the morning. He discovered that after all he was ready for sleep, and threw his cigarette-end out into the dark.
    Janet turned out the rod of light inset at the head of her bed, lay still for a few minutes, and turned it on again. As a rule, it was soothing to look at her green and silver room: she had pretty, elegant taste, and was quick to recognize and imitate originality. But to-night there was little to choose; the darkness seemed printed with the past, the light with the present. At the side of her eau-de-Nil taffeta eiderdown was a squashed depression where Kit had been sitting; she twitched at it with little sharp jerks till it fluffed out again.
    The truth, she thought—and the truth should be faced however unwillingly—was that Kit was growing hard. She had felt this several times lately, though never so strongly as to-night. To-night for the first time he had been cold to her. It was the only word. She had met him, as she always tried to, with sympathy and understanding; one must make allowances for men, whose standards were necessarily so different from one’s own; and he had been utterly unresponsive, snubbing her with cold kindness. She asked so little, she thought; only some affection and warmth, and to know that he minded about her. He had always showed that he minded, till to-night.
    For Kit to grow hard seemed so wrong. It didn’t suit him. He was egotistic, of course, as all men were: it was something to do with sex that made them so, and women, being more perceptive, learned to make sacrifices quietly and to expect no thanks. But he had never been hard. That was what she had liked about him when they first met, a freshness, something romantic and unspoiled. He had had such beautiful thoughts about her. She had been careful of his illusions, taking pains always to be gracious in his presence, to be soignée, avoiding anything undisciplined or crude. But it had gone for nothing. Well, men were more physical; one learned not to expect too much.
    She put out the light again, but began to be sure now that she would not sleep. She wondered whether to go across to his room and