upon me, topaz-coloured in a blood-red setting. There was no expression in the suffused face.
"You want?" he said, in a voice that was august by dint of hopelessness.
"I want to explain," I said. I had no idea that this was what I had come for.
He answered only: "You!" He had the air of one speaking to something infinitely unimportant. It was as if I had no inkling of the real issue.
With a bravery of desperation I began to explain that I hadn't stumbled into the thing; that I had acted open-eyed; for my own ends . . . "My own ends." I repeated it several times. I wanted him to understand, and I did explain. I kept nothing from him; neither her coming, nor her words, nor my feelings. I had gone in with my eyes open.
For the first time Fox looked at me as if I were a sentient being. "Oh, you know that much," he said listlessly.
"It's no disgrace to have gone under to her," I said; "we had to." His despair seemed to link him into one "we" with myself. I wanted to put heart into him. I don't know why.
[310]
