He did not even reply to her for several minutes. She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. Cathy got a second job as a receptionist. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. With his gimblet he contrived to bore a number of holes so close together that at last one end of the bar, being completely pierced through, yielded; and pursuing the same with the other extremity, it fell out altogether. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it.
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