“I want to get a house for the summer, where I can take Aunt Jean,” she said. “I think I can afford it. She’s nearly sixty, Leonard. Don’t you think she’s—pathetic?”
“Pathetic?” said Leonard.
The most pathetic thing, he thought, was a man’s unconquerable longing for the sort of girl who didn’t exist—a gentle young thing who waited for him, who would be happy with him, in one of Connolly’s houses.
Violet was a practical girl. She was perfectly willing to be sacrificed for Aunt Jean’s million. She was sensible, and he was a fool.
He could not very well push the girl’s hand away, but his clasp became so limp that she withdrew it. She looked at him, but he did not look at her. She tried to talk to him, but he answered with marked indifference.
“If you can’t be a little more agreeable,” said Vi, a trifle unsteadily, “I don’t see much use in our having dinner together.”
“It wasn’t intended as a useful thing,” said Leonard. “Simply a diversion.”
“Well, I’m not diverted,” said Vi. “You’re being very—trying, Leonard!”
“I’m sorry,” said he; “but I didn’t think you’d be able to stand me very long.”
“If you’d try—”