There was a pause.
Then suddenly Catherine spoke, haltingly, with the way she had of being unused to words, but earnestly. “What does it—do to a man, Stacey? As much as—all that?”
He sighed in relief. “Wipes him out, Catherine,” he replied in an emotionless voice. “Replaces him with some one else. Good thing that you saw. Because I couldn’t possibly keep up the bluff. I can’t pretend with you two.”
“Nor with any one else,” said Catherine.
“Nor with any one else.”
Philip laughed. “Well, then,” he declared, “we have with us to-day a brand-new friend!”
But Catherine was clearly going to have things over and done with. “You mean,” she said courageously, “that you’re—glad, a little—to see us, but not—”
“Not the way I ought to be. Only in a vague uneasy dead way. Rotten, isn’t it? And brutal. And bound to hurt your feelings. But what can you expect? If I were to see a man cut in two by a bus on the Avenue I shouldn’t feel anything at all except a little distaste. There you have it. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“But the truth,” said Catherine, her eyes shining.
“Yes,” Stacey admitted. “There’s that to be said for it.”