"Oh, Pam!" he said. "Then you can marry him and be happy! I wish I
could do something just to show my enormous gratitude to you."
"Do you really mean that?" I said. I swung round on the music-stool, on
which I had seated myself, and smiled up at him.
"Of course I do."
"Then give me five hundred pounds," I said.
Cheneston lit a cigarette.
I do think the girl who has been brought up among a pack of brothers and
a crowd of male cousins misses something. When you start knowing men
for the first time in your twenties--when your critical faculties are at
their very keenest--you do get a fearful amount of astonishment and
thrills out of the appalling difference there is between their ways and
the ways of your own sex. It's a never-ceasing source of wonder to you.
I had startled Cheneston by a totally unexpected demand for five hundred
pounds--and he lit a cigarette.
A woman would have played with something, probably the
blind-tassel--Cheneston was standing near the window--repeated my
question, and tried to read my face; the man did none of these things.
I think cigarettes are to men what dangly things about dresses, and
bracelets, and hairpins are to women--something they can play with and
readjust when something has robbed them of their poise and sang-froid.
I notice that nervy women and shy women often have scarves and bead
necklaces and things they can finger in stressful moments.
"Would you like it in notes, or will a cheque do?" Cheneston asked
quietly. "If you will take a cheque I will give it to you now; if you
want notes I am afraid you must wait until I can drive in to the bank."
"I want it in notes," I said.
I wanted him to ask questions, to show enormous astonishment and
interest. I was furious with him for being so calm.
"I think you owe me something for coming here," I said crudely.
I wanted to rouse him at any price. I don't know quite what there is in
feminine make-up that makes you suddenly want to hurt the man you
love--and somehow the more aloof and patient and wonderful they are, the
more you want to scratch. It's only when they get a bit peevish and
earthly that you suddenly leave off and feel repentant. If a man,
especially a husband, ever patted me on the head, I should _bite_ him;
and I don't know why, but terribly gentlemanly men always make me feel
horribly unladylike.
I don't think I'm a nice character--but I don't think people who feel
things terribly, and get themselves all sort of churned up with
intensity, are very nice--not what ordinary people call "nice," anyway.
I think ordinary people like to feel "sure" of you because it's a great
compliment when it is said of you, "She's always just the same." They
advance on you with the same trustful confidence that a kitten does on
its saucerful of milk. I own it's bad luck to find a saucerful of dead
sea, or a minute proportion of fire and brimstone.
"I owe you more than five hundred pounds," Cheneston said quietly; then
he looked at me for the first time. "Pam," he said, "you've altered so
lately. Are you happy?"
"I'm a twittering bunch of sunshine," I said.