So he talked to himself, but aloud he said nothing whatever.
“What has been, has been,” she continued. “There is nothing that I regret. I hope you regret nothing—”
She waited for him to speak.
“Oh, I regret nothing,” he said, accommodatingly.
“Good then,” she answered, “good then. Then neither of us cherishes any regrets, which is as it should be.”
“Quite as it should be,” he said aimlessly.
She paused to gather up her thread again.
“Our attempt has been a failure,” she said. “But we can try again, elsewhere.”
A little flicker of rage ran through his blood. It was as if she were rousing him, goading him. Why must she do it?
“Attempt at what?” he asked.
“At being lovers, I suppose,” she said, a little baffled,