“He promised me that if he could not call any week he would write me a line instead. He came to town last week, and he neither called nor wrote. That wasn’t like the man I saw in him. That was a direct breaking of his word. I can’t understand, and I’m disappointed.”
Holloway took out his cigarette case and turned it over and over thoughtfully in his hands.
“He’s nothing but a boy,” he said at last, with an effort.
“He’s no boy,” she said. “He’s almost twenty-two years old. He’s a man.”
“Some are men at twenty-two, and some are boys,” Holloway remarked. “I was a man before I was eighteen—a man out in the world of men. But Denham’s a boy.”
He rose as he spoke, and she held out her hand for him to raise her, too.
“It’s early to go,” she remarked parenthetically.
“I know,” he replied; “but I hear someone being shown into the drawing-room. I don’t feel formal to-day, and if I can’t lounge in here alone with you I’d rather go.”
“How egotistical!” she commented.
“I am egotistical,” he admitted.