That Roger’s mental state would be visible on his face only occurred to him when he walked into his house and his father looked up, alarmed. “A slight headache,” Roger lied, to forestall Joseph’s inevitable concern and questions. “I think I’ll retire early.”
“Of course,” Joseph said, still looking worried. “I’ll have a tray of supper sent up.”
Roger didn’t eat it, beyond a few mouthfuls of bread to make sure he didn’t faint. He spent the night ricocheting between his armchair, the edge of his bed, and the corner of the room, moving frantically and feverishly, as though through motion he could excise his excess feeling.
For, of course, now he would have to say something. And Roger did not know if he was brave enough.
He slept, some, falling under a little after midnight, and waking with
