He thought he had bored her. By an effort
he made himself affable and entertaining; he never let himself be angry,
he never asked for anything, he never complained, he never scolded. When
she made engagements and broke them, he met her next day with a smiling
face; when she excused herself, he said it did not matter. He never let
her see that she pained him. He understood that his passionate grief had
wearied her, and he took care to hide every sentiment which could be in
the least degree troublesome. He was heroic.
Though she never mentioned the change, for she did not take any conscious
notice of it, it affected her nevertheless: she became more confidential
with him; she took her little grievances to him, and she always had some
grievance against the manageress of the shop, one of her fellow
waitresses, or her aunt; she was talkative enough now, and though she
never said anything that was not trivial Philip was never tired of
listening to her.
"I like you when you don't want to make love to me," she told him once.
"That's flattering for me," he laughed.
She did not realise how her words made his heart sink nor what an effort
it needed for him to answer so lightly.
"Oh, I don't mind your kissing me now and then. It doesn't hurt me and it
gives you pleasure."
Occasionally she went so far as to ask him to take her out to dinner, and
the offer, coming from her, filled him with rapture.
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