Faster! Faster! by E. M. Delafield

somebody, and them care about me.”
    â€œTo fall in love, in fact.”
    Sylvia nodded.
    â€œI suppose so. Is that sloppiness?”
    â€œNo,” said Quarrendon again. He stopped, as if to think carefully, and then said again: “No. It’s just nature, isn’t it?”
    â€œI’m glad you think it’s all right,” said Sylvia gravely.
    â€œQuite all right. May I ask you something?”
    â€œOh yes. Anything you like.”
    She was surprised, that he shouldn’t know that.
    â€œDid you ever think of any special kind of love? I mean—it wasn’t that you very much wanted children, for instance?”
    â€œNo,” said Sylvia. “I’d like to have children, quite, but not at all specially. No, it wasn’t that.”
    â€œI think I understand.”
    She had never doubted it.
    â€œI take it,” said Quarrendon, “that you never have been in love?”
    â€œNo, never. And you see—this is really the point—I sometimes wonder if I ever shall be.”
    She hesitated.
    â€œSomeone—a man—once told me that I was
completely
frigid,” said Sylvia in a low, ashamed voice.
    She looked at Quarrendon.
    His face had not altered. He was still gazing out, through the thick lenses of his spectacles, in the direction of the poppies.
    â€œIt’s nice of you not to laugh, or—or despise me or anything,” she said humbly.
    â€œWhy should I? In the first place, I’m honoured by your confidence, and in the second, what you’ve just told me is quite serious. Not because it’s true—which of course it isn’t—but becauseyou evidently believe it to be true.”
    â€œI thought it might be. You see, he kissed me, at a dance, and I simply hated it. He was quite nice, really—I’d liked him, till then.”
    â€œBut you weren’t in love with him.”
    â€œOh good heavens, no. And he wasn’t, with me.”
    â€œThen, if I may say so, he was a cad, as well as being a conceited fool, to kiss you. What right had he to expect you to tolerate it—let alone like it?”
    â€œGirls do,” suggested Sylvia. “At least, they always say they do. It’s supposed to be a sort of compliment.”
    This time Quarrendon did turn round and look full at her.
    She had the curious feeling that he could communicate his thought to her without speaking it aloud.
    â€œDo you mean that they just pretend to themselves they like it, because they think they’re being modern, or grown-up or something?” He nodded.
    â€œBut some really do.”
    â€œSome, yes. But not people like you.”
    â€œNothing to do with my being frigid?”
    â€œNothing. That was just the young man, pretending. It was naturally more soothing to his vanity to see you as frigid than himself as unattractive.”
    They both laughed.
    â€œHow easy it is to talk to you!” cried Sylvia.
    â€œIs it? You don’t mind my being so very much older than you are?”
    â€œOh
no.
Why should I?”
    â€œI don’t know. But it’s thought to make a difference. As regards sharing the same point of view, I suppose. I don’t quite see why it should, though.”
    â€œNeither do I. Do you think it does—in our case?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œNo. I’ve had more experience than you, because I’ve lived longer, that’s all. I think that fundamentally we probably see things the same way. That’s why
I
like talking to
you,
too.”
    Sylvia lifted radiant eyes to his.
    â€œIt’s marvellous, for me.”
    â€œThen we’re friends, Sylvia?”
    â€œOh yes, Andrew.”
    He lightly placed his hand over hers for a moment.
(3)
    Quarrendon had for years been the victim of his own susceptibility.
    Very few women attracted him, but with the ones that did, he usually fell very deeply in love. These affairs interfered with his work, perturbed him