ve.
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. It was tactless of me. But I wanted the tea. I
forgot. And I wanted to stay, too. I haven't learnt to do without
things that I want."

"You think I don't want them?"

She closed the cupboard door abruptly. The kitchen was so small that
when she turned they had to stand close to one another to avoid falling
back into the sink or burning themselves against the gas jet. He saw
that the fine colour had gone out of her face. She looked unfamiliarly
tired.

"I think you want them terribly. I suppose I'm not heroic. I don't
like your saying 'No' always--always."

"I shall get what I really want in the end."

She sighed, reflected, and then laughed rather ruefully.

"Oh, well, get the cups now, at any rate."

"There are only three, Francey."

"You and I will have to share, then."

So she made him happy--just as she had done when they had been
children--with a sudden comradely gesture.

But in the next room Mr. Ricardo had begun to talk again. They had to
hear him. He was not crying any more. His voice sounded hard and
embittered.

"He's changed. He doesn't care. He pretended to listen. He was
looking at that gi