“If I had known you’d be here,” he said. “I’d have worn—not this dressing gown.”
She shook her head and laughed.
“That doesn’t make any difference,” she said. “I’m enjoying you in your robes. That’s one reason I like this place. You don’t even have to dress up your thoughts, here.”
He was reflecting upon how little personal he had ever been with her. Together they had spent many hours working on the manuscript, in strict detachment, with minds focused on the work in hand. Many times he had felt the urge to break through the delicate shell of reserve, but had refrained, partly because he had wanted to preserve his concentration for literary effort, but mostly because the figure of Max Lee was constantly in the background. He knew that his chum loved Freda MacDowell. He had always taken her reciprocation of Lee’s affection for granted until recently, when he began looking for signs of it.
“But I’m afraid,” she said, “that our dear old boarding-house is soon going to become a thing of the past. Everybody seems to be leaving.”
Mauney turned in surprise.
“I haven’t heard a word about it,” he said.
“You knew that Max wasn’t so well, didn’t you?”
“He looks poorly, but he has never said a word about health to me, lately.”
“He’s really pretty well all in, I guess. He’s leaving in a day or so for Rookland Sanatorium—”