“Because,” I went on, “I don’t know how _you_ feel, but _I_ always feel
as if she were there.”
He said nothing; but he got up, as though to shake off the oppression of
the memory I had evoked, and stood leaning on the chimney-piece with his
back to me.
The phantasm retreated to its place, where it kept its eyes fixed on him
as before.
I was determined to break down his defences, to make him say something
it might hear, give some sign that it would understand.
“Donald, do you think it’s a good thing, a _kind_ thing, never to talk
about her?”
“Kind? Kind to whom?”
“To yourself, first of all.”
“You can leave me out of it.”
“To me, then.”
“What’s it got to do with you?” His voice was as hard and cutting as he
could make it.
“Everything,” I said. “You forget, I loved her.”
He was silent. He did at least respect my love for her.
“But that wasn’t what she wanted.”
That hurt him. I could feel him stiffen under it.
“You see, Donald,” I persisted, “_I_ like thinking about her.”
It was cruel of me; but I _had_ to break him.
“You can think as much as you like,” he said, “provided you stop
talking.”
“All the same, it’s as bad for you,” I said, “as it is for me, not
talking.”
“I don’t care if it is bad for me. I _can’t_ talk about her, Helen. I
don’t want to.”
“How do you know,” I said, “it isn’t bad for _her_?”
“For _her_?”