Kind Are Her Answers by Mary Renault Page A

that the first demands of his passion had been a hideous disappointment for which she had never forgiven him, and, in the end, probably never would. Less than ever did she admit it to herself now. What she believed herself to be thinking was that here was a charming, idealistic boy whom it would be cruel, after all, to snub, who needed some one to bring him out and preserve his illusions.
    “Have you belonged to the Group long?” she asked.
    “No. I only got Changed”—he shot out the word after a hard swallow—“quite a few weeks ago. You know, I do absolutely understand you not being so keen about it at first, because of course you don’t need something like that in the way I did. They’ll try awfully hard to get you in, though, because of course you’d be such a help in it.” He removed his eyes from her face, locked his hands in a complicated way under one knee and over the other, and swallowed again. “I was at a school in Canada, the last few years, because my people had to be there.” (This explained a few incongruous intonations of voice which had been puzzling her.) “I don’t know what the others were like, but at the one I was at, it was the done thing to be pretty hard-boiled. When I say hard-boiled, I mean the real thing, you know.”
    She gave an understanding nod. Encouraged, but going pink at the ears, he went on. “By that I mean a lot of the seniors, anyway, had done pretty well everything.”
    She nodded again.
    “If you hadn’t, you talked as if you had, and told stories and all that.”
    She smiled at him; in his face she saw a reflection of herself inclining very slightly from a very high altar. “I can’t imagine you,” she said, “telling any story that you couldn’t repeat, for instance, to me.”
    “Well, as a matter of fact, I know about a dozen that I’d rather die than let you hear, and some songs too.” Both of them were happily unaware of a substratum of modest pride beneath this claim. “Sometimes”—he coloured more deeply than before—“I used to keep thinking about those things when I didn’t want to. Of course we all thought religion was siss—pretty soft.”
    “What made you change your mind?”
    “Well, I met a rather marvellous chap who quite obviously wasn’t soft. He’s an International, as a matter of fact. So I thought if it was good enough for him, why shouldn’t it be for me? He’s speaking this afternoon. It’s too bad you’re not well, I think you’d have felt different about it all if you could have heard him.”
    “But I’m keeping you from hearing him. Do please go in; it would be such a shame for you to miss it.”
    She waited for his answer. The delicious sense of power, that essential vitamin whose deficiency she had, lately, begun so terrifyingly to feel, once again lit and warmed her.
    “Oh, that’s all right, he’s sure to be speaking again at another meeting. You know, really, I do think somebody ought to see you home. It would be pretty grim if you suddenly felt wonky in the street somewhere. I’d love to, if I might.”
    “That’s very unselfish of you.” She smiled, gracious and indulgent, while he protested incoherently. “Really, you know, it isn’t necessary.”
    They rose. Without exactly planning it, she got to her feet a little hesitantly, with the least suggestion of difficulty and limpness. He leaned over her, his freckled face quite drawn with solicitude. A noise of hear-hearing and laughter drifted out from the hall. Janet heard it in a sudden access of kindly toleration.
    When she got home she brushed out her hair, and combed it down a little lower and smoother over her cheeks. It made her look frailer, and accented her pallor a little. She turned away from the glass, satisfied, and convinced that the alteration had been an accident.
    The silver was not looking quite as it should. The maid used too much plate-polish, and Janet was sure she did not wash the polishing cloth regularly. She gave her a little