“You _are_ well informed, aren’t you? Perhaps you are no more of one,
but she never pretended to be anything else—to me.”
I was hopeless then. This distance seemed occupied by a tangible
barricade between us. Could it be bridged? I could not think how. Two
tears dropped down into my salad. I hoped Peter did not see them. One
had one’s pride. No, that was silly. I did not have any pride, because I
cared. I just felt I ought to have some.
His voice was elder-brotherly affectionate. “I didn’t mean to make you
cry, Pat. Don’t think about it any more. Have a cognac and benedictine
mixed for a liqueur? You used to like them?”
“Thank you.” I looked at him. I stretched my hand to where his hand lay
on the table. Perhaps if he let me touch him . . .
He slipped his hand over mine, and then noticed the emerald ring. “Oh
God, Pat,” he said, “do you remember?”
* * * * *
We talked about London; the first apartment we had had there; dinners
for two I had managed to buy for a dollar; things far away and long ago.
When we went out, he tucked my arm under his, and we walked through the
Spring evening, looking in shop windows, making each other laugh by
remembering things we had done and jested at when we were awfully young.
He was twenty-five and I was twenty-four; and we talked about “when we
were awfully young.” I asked him—I was shy about it—to come see my
apartment. He said he would like to, so we took a cab, and found that we
were hanging on to each other’s hands rather desperately.
There was no light in Lucia’s apartment when we passed. I went straight
on up, and locked the door at the stair-head. I did not want Lucia and
strange people coming in and talking about plays they had been to, when
I could talk to Peter instead.
But I must think of something to talk about. I gave him cigarettes. He
was looking at me as if he loved to look at me; and yet, as if it hurt
him.
“Peter, I’ve been meeting playwrights and columnists and a painter who’s
going to do my portrait, and more funny people . . .”
“Yes, I suppose you would go in for celebrity chasing.”
That stopped me. I wished we were somewhere other than this apartment
that had nothing to do with Peter and me.
“Sorry, Pat. I didn’t mean to be disagreeable.”
“It’s all right.” (He had not kissed me, yet. Maybe, when he did, it
might be really all right. It might bridge the distance.)
He walked up and down. He was just a little drunk. I was afraid I would
say something stupid, so I said nothing. He began to talk. “Before I was
in love with you, Pat, I was rather hard hit by that girl Natalie. Do
you remember? I’ve mentioned her. Promtrotter and so on; I wrote verses
to her and she ditched me for Gerard, because he had a hell of a lot of
money. It was sensible of her—she was five years older than I anyway,
and it was just a case of calf-love, as far as I was concerned. But I
took it relatively hard. . . . Then I met you. . . .”