"If you make him," I said, still casual.
"How can I make him?"
She said it with flat, plangent earnestness. She was always like that, pushing me deeper in than I wanted to go.
"Be happy yourself, I suppose: and quite sure about it. And then tell him you're happy, and tell him he is too, and he'll be it."
"Must I do all that?" she said rapidly. "Not otherwise?"
I knew I was frowning at her, and she was watching my frown.
"Probably not," I said roughly. "He'll never make up his mind about it himself."
"How did you know?" she asked, as if it had been a mystery.
"I didn't. It only seems to me like that."
"Seems to you like that," she re-echoed, in that sad, clean monotone of finality, always like metal. I appreciate it in her, that she does not murmur or whisper. But I wished she left me alone, in that beastly theatre.