“Do you ever open a book?”
“Sometimes. I had a few sent to me.”
“Economic books?” asked Kurt.
“No. But I go on thinking about all that. Habit, I suppose, or perhaps trying to discover what it really is all about, and I don’t know. They used to call it a science, but it can’t be scientific——”
“That’s what I say. You do know where you are with an engine. You can eat up distance. But I thought clever people would never understand that. You used not to. Perhaps you’re not clever any more. That’s what I said to Linda. Oh, I’m sorry.”
“You needn’t be.” René gulped that out, for indeed he was embarrassed. The days of his torment were brought back suddenly, came savagely breaking through his simple pleasure in the rediscovery of this enlarged Kurt, grown from boy to man without loss of youth and frankness. He extricated himself from his confusion by asking:
“How is she?” And at once he was shocked to find out how little he really cared to know.
“Linda? Well, she’s a much better sort than she used to be. I don’t know much about women, though I like them well enough. Linda? Oh, she seems happy. She has a house and a piano and a lot of people, goes abroad, little parties of four or five, mixed; musicians and professors, cream of Thrigsby, you know. She wrote a play for the Thrigsby Repertory Theater, all about you and marriage and sex. Rather disgusting, I thought it, but all Thrigsby flocked to see it. All the same, yes, she is nicer. Not so inquisitive; doesn’t romance so wildly. The only objection I have to her now is that she will get me into a corner when I’m at home and talk about you. I think she ought to ignore your existence, as it is no longer her affair. She seems unable to do that, and she fancies I know something about you that she doesn’t, though I’ve told her over and over again that I don’t pretend to understand you or anybody else. I did tell her that you made me feel that what I wanted to do wasn’t necessarily a thing to be ashamed of.”
“I did that?”