He could almost hear her say, "Tag, Robert!" but he would not look at
her. And yet the moment after he knew that it was all make-believe.
His anger was a sham, protecting something that was fragile and afraid
of pain. Now that she had gone out of the barren little room she had
taken with her the sense of a secret, gracious intimacy which had been
its warmth and colour. He saw that the sunlight had shrunk to a pale
gold finger whose tip rested lingeringly on the windowsill, and he felt
tired and cold and work-soiled.
He got up and followed her awkwardly, with a sullen face and a
childishly beating heart. The kettle was already on the gas, and
Francey gazing into an open cupboard that was scarcely smaller than the
kitchen itself.
"It's like a boy's chemist shop," she said casually, as though she had
expected him, "with the doses done up in little white paper packets.
Is it a game, Robert?"
"A sort of game. We used to use too much of everything, and at the end
of the week there'd be nothing left. So we doled it out like that."
"Yes, I see. A jolly good idea. That way you couldn't over-eat
yourselves."
"I--I suppose you think I was an awful beast about the tea, don't you?"
"No, I didn't--I don't."
"I was--much firmer than I would have been, but I wanted you to stay.
So I couldn't give in."
"If it had been just Cosgrave and Miss Edwards?"
"It wouldn't have mattered--not so much."
"I wasn't hurt.
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