Amanda seemed to measure her hold upon him.
She laid her hand upon his arm. “Go, my dear Pip,” she said. “Go.”
He had a moment of hesitation, of anguish, and it seemed to Benham as though he eked himself out with unreality, as though somewhen, somewhere, he had seen something of the sort in a play and filled in a gap that otherwise he could not have supplied.
Then the door had closed upon him, and Amanda, pale and darkly dishevelled, faced her husband, silently and intensely.
“Why did you leave me, Cheetah? Why did you leave me?”
Benham affected to ignore those proffered arms. But they recalled in a swift rush the animal anger that had brought him back to England. To remind him of desire now was to revive an anger stronger than any desire. He spoke seeking to hurt her.
“I am wondering now,” he said, “why the devil I came back.”
“I could have written just as well about these things.”
“CHEETAH,” she said softly, and came towards him slowly, stooping forward and looking into his eyes, “you had to come back to see your old Leopard. Your wretched Leopard. Who has rolled in the dirt. And is still yours.”
“Do you want a divorce? How are we to fix things, Amanda?”
“Cheetah, I will tell you how we will fix things.”
She dropped upon the step below him. She laid her hands with a deliberate softness upon him, she gave a toss so that her disordered hair was a little more disordered, and brought her soft chin down to touch his knees. Her eyes implored him.
“Cheetah,” she said. “You are going to forgive.”
“Amanda,” he said at last, “you would be astonished if I kicked you away from me and trampled over you to the door. That is what I want to do.”
“Do it,” she said, and the grip of her hands tightened. “Cheetah, dear! I would love you to kill me.”
“And I haven't the remotest intention of making love to you,” he said, and pushed her soft face and hands away from him as if he would stand up.
She caught hold of him again. “Stay with me,” she said.
He made no effort to shake off her grip. He looked at the dark cloud of her hair that had ruled him so magically, and the memory of old delights made him grip a great handful almost inadvertently as he spoke. “Dear Leopard,” he said, “we humans are the most streaky of conceivable things. I thought I hated you. I do. I hate you like poison. And also I do not hate you at all.”