"What are you afraid of?" Jeff felt he had to meet him with an equal candour.
"Everything."
They looked at each other a moment and then Jeff essayed a mild, "Oh, come!" because there was nothing more to the point.
"I've taken care of myself," said the colonel, with more vigour, "till I'm punk. I can't stand a knockdown blow. I couldn't stand your going away. I went to bed."
"Is my going a knockdown blow?"
There was something pathetic in hearing that, but pleasurable, too, in a warm, strange way.
"Why, yes, of course it is."
"Well, then," said Jeff, "don't worry. I won't go."
"Oh, yes, you will," said the colonel instantly, "or you'll be punk. I'd rather go with you. I told you that. But it wouldn't do. I should begin to pull on you. And you'd mother me as they do, these dear girls."
"Yes," said Jeffrey thoughtfully. "Yes. They're dear girls."