It was then that he moved and straightened himself in his chair with a sigh, that heavy, long-drawn sigh that men give when they make an end. ‘Work or play, joy or grief, it’s done with. And now——?’ Such a sigh as you never hear from women. But then we are not wise at ending things.
I thought that he was getting up, that he was going then and there, and instinctively I hurried into speech, daring anything—everything—his own thoughts of me—rather than let him go.
“Yes—that’s over!” I translated softly.
He turned with such a stare that I could have smiled.
“I meant that. How did you know?”
“Why shouldn’t I know?” I did smile then. It made him smile back at me, but doubtfully, unwillingly.
“Can you read thoughts—too?” The last word seemed to come out in spite of himself.
“Not always. Yours I can.” My face was burning. But I could have spared myself the shame that made it burn, for he did not understand. My voice said nothing to him. My face showed him nothing. He was thinking about himself. But he leant forward in that way he has—a dear way—of liking to talk to you.
“Can you? I never can. Only when I paint. I can put them into paint, of course. But not words. She said——” and all through the subsequent talk he avoided the name—“she said it was laziness, a lazy mind. But I always told her that that was her fault. I—we—her people—were just wool: she knitted us into our patterns. She was a wonder. You know, she—she was good for one. She was like bread—bread and wine——” His voice strained and flagged.
I nodded.