"Not for good?"
"Probably—in fact, almost certainly."
"Why, man, you can't do that!" protested Dick. "You can't leave me in the lurch."
"Oh, I want to keep my interest. It's simply that I can't stay on, myself."
"But I need you now as much as I need the capital. Why, it'd upset everything for a year—perhaps longer. I couldn't easily find a competent man I could trust."
Basil repeated in a final, dogged way, "It's impossible for me to stay."
"Is there anything unsatisfactory in——"
"No—no indeed. My own affairs entirely, I assure you."
As he had finished supper, Vaughan took him out on the veranda, where Courtney heard them—or, rather, heard Dick—arguing and protesting. Presently she drifted into the sitting room, sat at the piano, let her fingers wander soundlessly over the keys. What should she do? What was best for him—for her—"and there's Richard, too, who needs him." Why should he go? How would it help matters? True, she had declared that to be the right course; but then she was merely theorizing, merely talking the conventional thing. This was no theory, but actuality, calling for good common sense. It was not the first time she had found the facts of life making mockery of the most convincing theories about it. Presently she felt that Basil was in the window farthest from her, was watching her—probably with the same loving, despairing expression she had often seen without a suspicion that it was for her.
"Where's Richard?" inquired she, not looking in his direction.