“Yes but I know what he means. Besides we don’t talk, in the society way.”
“How do you talk?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I air my theories sometimes. He always disagrees. Once he told me suddenly it was very bad for me to go about with him.”
“But you go.”
“Of course I do.” The untold scenes were standing in the way. There was no way of telling them. … Tansley Street life was more and more unreal to them the deeper it grew. It was unreal to them because things were kept back. They were still interested in stories of Wimpole Street, but even there now they only glanced in passing, their thoughts busy in the shared life they perpetually jested over. They listened with reservations; not always believing; sitting in dressing-gowns believing or not as they chose; because one knew one had lost touch and tried to make things interesting to get back into the old glow. …
“How did the dinner-party go off?”
“Beautifully.”
“Did you talk German?”
“There was no need; the man talked better English than anybody.”
“Why did it go off beautifully? Tell us about the beautiful things.”
The strange silent twilight, the reassuring shyness of all the guests; no attempt to talk about anything in particular; cool hard face and upright coldly jewelled body; the sense of success with each simple remark. The evening of music. Life-marked people; their marks showing without pain, covered, half-healed by the hours of kindness.