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But before the beginning of the
next one, he seemed to manage somehow to dismiss the thing as an
impossible nightmare.
An invitation came in from the Crawfords for a dance at the Blackstone,
the fifth of December, and he said something about accepting it.
"I shan't be here then, Roddy, you know," she said.
He went completely to pieces at that, as if the notion of her going away
had never really reached his mind before.
The struggle ranged through the widest possible gamut of moods. They had
their moments of rapturous love--passionate attempts at self-surrender.
They had long hours of cool discussion, as impersonal as if they had
been talking about the characters out of a hook instead of about
themselves. They had stormy nerve-tearing hours of blind agonizing,
around and around in circles, lacerating each other, lashing out at each
other, getting nowhere. They had moments of incandescent anger.
He tried, just once, early in the fight, to take the ground he had taken
once before; that she was irresponsible, obsessed.


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