The Collector

 A much more than nice woman.

 There's no word to say how he said it. Sadly, almost unwillingly. Tenderly, but a shade bitterly. And honestly. Not teasing, not being dry. But right out of his real self. I'd been looking down all the time we were talking, but he made me look up then, and our eyes met and I know something passed between us. I could feel it. Almost a physical touch. Changing us. His saying something he totally meant, and my feeling it.

 He remained staring at me, so that I was embarrassed. And still he stared. I said, please don't stare at me like that.

 He came and put his arm round my shoulders then and led me gently towards the door. He said, you are very pretty, at times you're beautiful. You are sensitive, you are eager, you try to be honest, you manage to be both your age and natural and a little priggish and old-fashioned at the same time. You even play chess quite well. You're just the daughter I'd like to have. That's probably why I've wanted you so much these last few months.

 He pushed me through the door, face forward, so I couldn't see him.

 I can't say such things to you without turning your head. And you mustn't turn your head, in any sense. Now, go.

 I felt him press my shoulders an instant. And he kissed the back of my head. Pushed me away. And I went two or three steps down the stairs before I stopped and looked back. He was smiling, but it was a sad smile.

 I said, please don't let it be too long.

 He just shook his head. I don't know if he meant "no, not too long" or "it's no good hoping it will be anything else but very long." Perhaps he didn't know himself. But he looked sad. He looked sad all through.

 Of course I _looked_ sad. But I didn't really feel sad. Or it wasn't a sadness that hurt, not an all-through one. I rather enjoyed it. Beastly, but I did. I sang on the way home. The romance, the mystery of it. Living.

 I thought I knew I didn't love him. I'd won that game.

 And what has happened since?

 That first day or two, I kept on thinking he would telephone, that it was all a sort of whim. Then I would think, I shan't see him again for months, perhaps years, and it seemed ridiculous. Unnecessary. Stupid beyond belief. I hated what seemed _his_ weakness. I thought, if he's like this, to hell with him.

 That didn't last very long. I decided to decide that it was for the best. He was right. It was best to make a clean break. I would concentrate on work. Be practical and efficient and everything that I'm not really by nature.

 All that time I kept thinking, do I love him? Then, obviously, there was so much doubt, I couldn't.

 And now I have to write down what I feel now. Because I have changed again. I know it. I feel it.

 Looks; I know it is idiotically wrong to have preconceived notions about looks. Getting excited when Piers kisses me. Having to stare at him sometimes (not when he would notice, because of his vanity) but feeling his looks intensely. Like a beautiful drawing of something ugly. You forget about the ugliness. I know Piers is morally and psychologically ugly -- just plain and dull, phoney.

 But even there I've changed.

 I think about G.P. holding me and caressing me.

 There's a sort of nasty perverted curiosity in me -- I mean, all the women he's had and all the things he must know about being in bed.

 I can imagine his making love to me and it doesn't disgust me. Very expert and gentle. Fun. All sorts of things, but not _the_ thing. If it's to be for life.

 Then there's his weakness. The feeling that he would probably betray me. And I've always thought of marriage as a sort of young adventure, two people of the same age setting out together, discovering together, growing together. But I would have nothing to tell him, nothing to show him. All the helping would be on his side.

 I've seen so little of the world. I know that G.P. in many ways represents a sort of ideal now. His sense of what counts, his independence, his refusal to do what the others do. His standing apart. It has to be someone with those qualities. And no one else I've met has them as he has. People at the Slade _seem_ to have them -- but they're so young. It's easy to be frank and to hell with convention when you're our age.

 Once or twice I've wondered whether it wasn't all a trap. Like a sacrifice in chess. Supposing I had said on the stairs, do what you like with me, but don't send me away?

 No, I won't believe that of him.

 Time-lag. Two years ago I couldn't have dreamed of falling in love with an older man. I was always the one who argued for equal ages at Ladymont. I remember being one of the most disgusted when Susan Grillet married a Beastly Baronet nearly three times her age. Minny and I used to talk about guarding against being "father" types (because of M) and marrying father-husbands. I don't feel that any more. I think I need a man older than myself because I always seem to see through the boys I meet. And I don't feel G.P. is a father-husband.

 It's no good. I could go on writing arguments for and against all night.