"Of course it isn't. But then he has."
"I don't believe it. There was something——"
"Didn't I tell you men were queer?" Jean spoke without turning. "They—they don't have reasons, not good ones, for everything they do. They——"
"Fiddlesticks! Maybe they don't know their own reasons, but they have 'em. Nobody, not even a man, switches round like that without some cause. Why, he's been coming here three and four times a week, and he's enjoyed it, too. I feel as if he belonged somehow, don't you?"
Jean was looking into the Park, to the trees, a sickly green with their coating of summer dust under the arc lights. But she could see Gregory lounging in the empty chair at the other end of the window, could see him very distinctly, his nervous hands on the dark tapestry of the arms, his head tilted back.
"Yes. He does seem to go with the place."
"Are you sure you didn't do anything? He looked awfully glum that night when I came in."
"I don't know. Maybe I did, but I can't think of anything." Jean continued to stare at the dusty trees. "Anyhow, if he's the reasonable being you insist he is, he'll get over being huffy, and then we'll know."
Mary laughed. "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings. But I'll confess that it annoys me. Doesn't it you?"
Jean faced into the room. "No. But then I have real annoyances to contend with."