夜雨聆风Phillipa had stopped pricking out. She was staring at him with a puzzledfrown.
“What has Burne Jones got to do with it?”
“Everything. When you’ve read all about the Pre-Raphaelites you realizejust what fashion is. They were all terrifically hearty and slangy and jolly,and laughed and joked, and everything was fine and wonderful. That wasfashion, too. They weren’t any happier or heartier than we are. And we’renot any more miserable than they were. It’s all fashion, I tell you. After thelast war, we went in for sex. Now it’s all frustration. None of it matters.
Why are we talking about all this? I started out to talk about us. Only I gotcold feet and shied off. Because you won’t help me.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Talk! Tell me things. Is it your husband? Do you adore him and he’sdead and so you’ve shut up like a clam? Is that it? All right, you adoredhim, and he’s dead. Well, other girls’ husbands are dead—lots of them—and some of the girls loved their husbands. They tell you so in bars, andcry a bit when they’re drunk enough, and then want to go to bed with youso that they’ll feel better. It’s one way of getting over it, I suppose. You’vegot to get over it, Phillipa. You’re young—and you’re extremely lovely—and I love you like hell. Talk about your damned husband, tell me abouthim.”
“There’s nothing to tell. We met and got married.”
“You must have been very young.”
