"And you?" exclaimed Lloyd, looking intently at him.
"My dear girl, I had my chance and failed. Now—" he raised a shoulder indifferently—"now, I don't care much about it. I've lost interest."
"I don't believe you," she cried energetically; "you of all men." Behind Bennett's chair she had a momentary glimpse of Adler, who had tucked his tray under his arm and was silently applauding in elaborate pantomime. She saw his lips form the words "That's it; that's right. Go right ahead."
"Besides, I have my book to do, and, besides that, I'm an invalid—an invalid who drinks slop."
"And you intend to give it all up—your career?"
"Well—if I should, what then?" Suddenly he turned to her abruptly. "I should not think you would want me to go again. Do you urge me to go?"
Lloyd made a sudden little gasp, and her hand involuntarily closed upon his as it rested near her on the table.
"Oh, no!" she cried. "Oh, no, I don't! You are right. It's not your work now."
"Well, then," muttered Bennett as though the question was forever settled.
Lloyd turned to her mail, and one after another slit the envelopes, woman fashion, with a shell hairpin. But while she was glancing over the contents of her letters Bennett began to stir uneasily in his place. From time to time he stopped eating and shot a glance at Lloyd from under his frown, noting the crisp, white texture of her gown and waist, the white scarf with its high, tight bands about the neck, the tiny, golden buttons in her cuffs, the sombre, ruddy glow of her cheeks, her dull-blue eyes, and the piles and coils of her bronze-red hair. Then, abruptly, he said: