“I don't trouble if YOU are late,” said Prothero, sitting up in his bed with a red resentful face and crumpled hair. “I wasn't born yesterday.”
“I wanted to talk about leaving Moscow.”
“I don't want to leave Moscow.”
“But Odessa—Odessa is the centre of interest just now.”
“I want to stay in Moscow.”
Benham looked baffled.
Prothero stuck up his knees and rested his night-shirted arms upon them. “I don't want to leave Moscow,” he said, “and I'm not going to do so.”
“But haven't we done—”
Prothero interrupted. “You may. But I haven't. We're not after the same things. Things that interest you, Benham, don't interest me. I've found—different things.”
His expression was extraordinarily defiant.