"You still wish to do them then?"
"Of course. Don't you?" Jean wanted to add that if he were going to continue in this mood she hoped he didn't.
"Certainly, I do. How about to-night?"
"All right for me. I kept it free on purpose."
There it was, the high-handed assurance that her plans would suit others. But he himself had suggested to-night and he would have to comply.
"It won't be any use starting before nine, do you think?"
"No. Not unless we cover two in the same evening."
"I don't believe I feel strenuous enough for that. One will do. I'll call for you then, about half past eight?"
He swung round in his chair and Jean suddenly noticed that he looked tired, not so much physically, but as if something had gone from within. He was desperately lonely and his loneliness had escaped in irritation toward herself, because she happened to be the only outlet at hand. It was what Martha had called "a man's nature cropping out." It made Jean feel unaccountably tender. And besides she had promised Alice to look out for Jerome.
"I tell you, suppose you come and have supper with me. I've moved, and am keeping house now over in Old Chelsea. Cooking is not my forte and I won't promise anything but delicatessen. Will you be my first guest?"