Clarissa and I exchanged notes on the months that had intervened since our luncheon.
“And you gave up Julian, too?”
“Yes ... but why 'too’?” I was irritated by the implication that I gave up all things before they were properly done.
“I feel you don’t finish things, Eugene. Not that you should; but I do worry about you.”
“It’s good of you,” I said, discovering that at a certain angle the Christmas tree could be made to resemble a rocket’s flare arrested in space.
“Now don’t take that tone with me. I have your interest at heart.” She expressed herself with every sign of sincerity in that curious flat language which she spoke so fluently yet which struck upon the ear untruly, as though it were, in its homeliness, the highest artifice.
“But I’ve taken care of everything, you know. Wait and see. If you hadn’t come out here on your own I should have sent for you....”
“And I would have come?”
“Naturally.” She smiled.
“But for what?”