She went on sewing in silence.
“You've not taken your quinine,” she said, looking up and seeing the tabloids upon the mantelpiece.
“I don’t want it,” said Ralph shortly.
“Well, you know best,” she replied tranquilly.
“Mary, I’m a brute!” he exclaimed. “Here I come and waste your time, and do nothing but make myself disagreeable.”
“A cold coming on does make one feel wretched,” she replied.
“I've not got a cold. That was a lie. There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m mad, I suppose. I ought to have had the decency to keep away. But I wanted to see you—I wanted to tell you—I’m in love, Mary.” He spoke the word, but, as he spoke it, it seemed robbed of substance.
“In love, are you?” she said quietly. “I’m glad, Ralph.”
“I suppose I’m in love. Anyhow, I’m out of my mind. I can’t think, I can’t work, I don’t care a hang for anything in the world. Good Heavens, Mary! I’m in torment! One moment I’m happy; next I’m miserable. I hate her for half an hour; then I’d give my whole life to be with her for ten minutes; all the time I don’t know what I feel, or why I feel it; it’s insanity, and yet it’s perfectly reasonable. Can you make any sense of it? Can you see what’s happened? I’m raving, I know; don’t listen, Mary; go on with your work.”
He rose and began, as usual, to pace up and down the room. He knew that what he had just said bore very little resemblance to what he felt, for Mary’s presence acted upon him like a very strong magnet, drawing from him certain expressions which were not those he made use of when he spoke to himself, nor did they represent his deepest feelings. He felt a little contempt for himself
