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Cy Maitland was saying: ‘Did you love him?’
The word love had not been used before between them; he had not used it in connection with his wife.
She said: ‘Very much.’
‘You don’t want to get married?’
She said demurely: ‘Every woman wants to get married.’
He gave a snort of laughter; and then turned to look at her, shrewd. ‘I don’t get you, Ella, you know that? I don’t understand you at all. But I understand you are a pretty independent sort of woman.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I am.’
Now he put his arms around her and said: ‘Ella, you’ve taught me things.’
‘I’m glad. I hope they were pleasant.’
‘Well, yes, they were too.’
‘Good.’
‘You kidding me?’
‘Just a little.’
‘That’s all right, I don’t mind. You know, Ella, I mentioned your name to someone today and they said you had written a book?’
‘Everyone has written a book.’
‘If I told my wife I’d met a real writer, she’d never get over it, she’s mad about culture and that kind of thing.’
‘But perhaps you’d better not tell her.’
‘What if I read your book?’
‘But you don’t read books.’
‘I can read,’ he said, good-humoured. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Well … let me see. It’s full of insight and integrity and one thing and another.’
‘You don’t take it seriously?’
‘Of course I take it seriously.’
‘OK then. OK. You’re not going?’
‘I have to — my son’ll wake up in about four hours from now, and unlike you, I need to sleep.’
‘OK. I won’t forget you, Ella. I wonder what it would be like, married to you.’
‘I’ve got a feeling you wouldn’t like it very much.’
She was dressing; he lay at ease in bed, watching her, shrewd and thoughtful.
‘Then I wouldn’t like it,’ he said and laughed, stretching his arms. ‘I probably wouldn’t at that.’
‘No.’
They parted, with affection.
She went home in a taxi, and crept up the stairs so as not to disturb Julia. But there was a light under Julia’s door, and she called out: ‘Ella?’
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