“And were you sorry when I came along?” she asked.

“I was sorry and I was glad.”

“And what are you now?”

“I’m sorry, from the outside: all the complications and the ugliness and recrimination that’s bound to come, sooner or later. That’s when my blood sinks, and I’m low. But when my blood comes up, I’m glad. I’m even triumphant. I was really getting bitter. I thought there was no real sex left: never a woman who’d really ‘come’ naturally with a man: except black women, and somehow, well, we’re white men: and they’re a bit like mud.”

“And now, are you glad of me?” she asked.

“Yes! When I can forget the rest. When I can’t forget the rest, I want to get under the table and die.”

“Why under the table?”

“Why?” he laughed. “Hide, I suppose. Baby!”