"You can't tell...." said Loring. His voice was stiff.
Sophy came over beside him. She stood watching the reflection of his nervous fingers in the glass for some minutes. She loved his hands. They were long and slight, the fine bone-work showing clearly—sensitive, self-willed hands. She thought how strange it was, that all the men she had ever cared for had had fine hands. Even Cecil's, huge as they were, had been well-moulded. Cecil ... how strange to think of Cecil's hands while she watched these others.... Life was like that. The tangle of memory made one thread pull another endlessly. She felt very sad all of a sudden.
Loring did not say anything more. Presently he jerked the tie from about his neck and threw it on the floor.
"Hell!" he said heartily.
Sophy laughed, then grew grave. His white face looked so disproportionately furious to the cause of wrath. He snatched up another tie and set to work again.
After a while Sophy said in a low voice:
"Morris ... don't you like Bobby?"
"Like him?... Of course I like him.... Damn this tie!"
Sophy waited a moment.
"Morris...."