Until he spoke Gallatin's name she had not heard a word. We are all surrounded at all times in our customary haunts by a multitude of unchanging objects, animate and inanimate. We become practically unconscious of them so long as they maintain the same relative position toward us. We notice only changes, only those changes that are radical. Richard had long been to Courtney a mere familiar part of her environment—as she of his. She could look at him without seeing him, could answer him without having really heard. She could submit to his caresses without any sense of them. This unconsciousness was not deliberate; it was far deeper, it was habitual. At Gallatin's name, however, she began to listen.
"Yes, he's going," said Richard.
She inspected the nail of her right little finger. "Is he?" she asked, head on one side critically and emery slip poised.
"For good. And I'm not sorry. He's of less and less use to me at the laboratory. His mind isn't on it." There Richard laughed.
"I thought you felt you couldn't get on without him," said she, searching in a box for an orange-wood stick.
"That was some time ago. I suppose you're glad he's going."
"Why?"
"I know you don't like him. You've been very good about it, and I appreciate your being polite to him. But I can see that you dislike him."
She glanced in the mirror, arranged a stray of hair. "You are mistaken."
"No, I'm not. You've got the good woman's instinct to please her husband, and you think you've conquered your dislike. But you haven't."