She tried to smile back. “But what else is there to talk about?” Her eyes rested on his face, and she read in it his effort to remain the unobtrusive and undemanding friend. The sight gave her a little twinge of compunction. “I mean, there’s nothing to say about me. Let’s talk about you,” she suggested.
The blood mounted to his temples, congesting his cheek-bones and the elderly fold above his stiff collar. He made a movement as if to rise, and then settled back resolutely into his chair. “About me? There’s nothing to say about me either—except in relation to you. And there there’s too much! Don’t get me going. Better take me for granted.”
“I do; that’s my comfort.” She was beginning to smile on him less painfully. “All your goodness to me—”
But now he stood up, his pink deepening to purple.
“Oh, not that, please! It rather hurts; even at my age. And I assure you I can be trusted to remind myself of it at proper intervals.”
She raised herself on her elbow, looking up at him in surprise.
“I’ve hurt you? I didn’t mean to.”
“Well—goodness, you know! A man doesn’t care to be eternally reminded of his goodness; not even if it’s supposed to be all he has to offer—in exchange for everything.”
“Oh—everything!” She gave a little shrug. “If ever a woman came to a man empty-handed....”
With a slight break in his voice he said: “You come with yourself.”