"'She does not know anything but that her side is beating,'" he quoted meditatively.
"I thought my generosity in confession might at least forestall sarcasm," she said severely.
"It ought to do so," he admitted.
There was a moment's pause.
"Has youth itself changed with the times, I wonder?" he speculated. "Certainly you did not sympathize overmuch with defeat at Alice's age."
She did not answer, and she was looking away from him through the glass, beyond which the darkness was pierced now and then by a shaft of illumination. The pensiveness that had rested on her face, when he had looked across the car at her, had deepened almost into sadness.
"And now," he went on, "you have called me successful—which shuts me out from your more mature sympathy."
Still she did not answer. He bent a little nearer to her.
"Believe me, Katharine," he said, "my success is not so very intoxicating after all. I need sympathy of a certain kind as much as I did twenty years ago."
She glanced at him.