“Yes, it is,” he said, and looked at her.
She looked away. Rivington was trying to catch the headwaiter's eye. Tommy was silent. Marion was forced to speak.
“Are you going to write this time?” Her eyebrows were raised, calmly questioning. The calmness brought to her a sense of both age and safety.
“How often can you stand it?” asked Tommy, anxiously. He wished to write every day.
“How often will you feel like it?” she asked, it was plain to see, for information only, that she might tell him exactly.
“If I wrote as often as I felt like it I'd write—” He stopped.
“That's what you say now.” Then she smiled, to forgive his silence in advance.
“Marion, I can't tell you how grateful I am to you—er—your father. He's made me go back a winner. It means everything to me.”
“I'm so glad, Tommy. Isn't it fine?”
“Yes. Only I wish I didn't have to go back at all.”