Oliver rose to his feet and laid down his pipe.
“That’s pretty straight, any way,” he said.
“You know it’s the same with you. The tragedy is we don’t care. . . . If you cleared out and left me, that might bring me up short. I think it probably would. I should come down to Things then—with the hell of a jar. The ale’d be bitter then.”
“Jean, why dig up this ground? It’s not particularly sweet. You say you don’t care about me. Well, let it go. I’m sorry you don’t, but——”
“Why will you blink the facts? Why can’t you be frank, as I am? I won’t tell anyone.”
“I don’t care who you tell, but——”
“Of course you do,” said Jean, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. “More. You care so much that you won’t give yourself away—even to me. Sentiment’s bad form. Besides, you’re self-conscious—awkward. This discussion’s inconvenient. You’d be thankful if I’d drop it. . . . Why don’t you take the plunge? It won’t involve you. Drop the mask for ten minutes and face the rotten facts. . . . If you were a waster by nature I should have saved my breath.”
There was a long silence.
At length—
“What,” said Oliver, “do you suggest?”