There was an awkward silence.
“Well!” he said at last. “Then what about going to the movies?”
Although he refused, as always, to look squarely at her, he had none the less observed her wan and tear-stained face, her untidy hair, her piteous dejection. Something which he imagined to be anger came over him.
“You been out with that feller?” he demanded.
“That’s my business!” returned Madeline valiantly.
“Well, if you—if you had more sense,” he said, and paused. He could not well have been more miserable than he was at that moment, nor could he have concealed it better. “Well!” he said again, with a sort of fury. “All right! It’s nothing to do with me. Go ahead! Suit yourself!”
He drew one of his books from his pocket, opened it, and held it out to her in a shaking hand.
“You can just look at this, if you like,” he said. “I’m going away to-morrow—that’s all I’ve got to say!”
She did look. Heavily underscored were two lines unfamiliar to her, and of striking beauty and significance:
’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.