"Yes, yes, yes. Of course I see. But why cannot you? Why can't you see that you and Sylvia stood as much chance of hitting it off as though you both spoke a different language? A break was bound to come."
But now the man appeared with the squash. Fanny looked at it. "Only two raspberries," she cried. "And such little ones."
"Bring a dish of them," said Annandale. "I suppose," he resumed as the waiter again retreated, "I suppose she will find somebody with whom she can hit it off."
"Yes, of course. There is me and there are other girls. But the men will be few. They will be elderly, I think, and I think, too, tame enough to eat out of her hand."
"You think, then, that I am out of the running?"
Fanny did not answer. She was drinking the squash. When she put it down she put with it the subject. It bored her.
"Are you going to be here long?" she asked. Until a moment before Annandale had been wavering. But now his mind was made up. Or he thought it was.
"No. I am off tomorrow."
"Where to?"
"The North Woods, perhaps. I am not sure."