"It was eighteen months yesterday," said she, "since you were—at the house."
He frowned at what he evidently regarded as a disagreeable and therefore tactless reminder. "Really? Time races for those who have something to do besides watch the clock." Then, ashamed of his irritation, "I suppose it's impossible, in an uneventful place like this, to appreciate how the current of a city like Chicago sweeps a man along and won't release him. There's so much to think about, one has no time for anything."
"Except the things that are important to one," replied she. "Don't misunderstand, please. I'm only stating a fact—not reproaching you—not at all."
"So, your father has turned against me."
"He has said nothing. But his expression, when I happened to speak of you the other day, told me it would be better for you not to come to the house—at least, until we had had a talk."
"Well, Neva, I don't feel I have any reason to reproach myself. I'm not the sort of man who stands about on the tail of his wife's dress or sits round the house in slippers. I'm trying to make a career, and that means work."
"Chicago is only six hours from Battle Field," she said with curiously quiet persistence.
"When I got the position in Chicago," he reminded her with some asperity, "I asked you to go with me. You refused."
"Did you wish me to go?"
"Did you wish to go?"