“Damn the book!” he thought. Aloud he said: “Of course! You were going to tell me where I have fallen down.”
“I hope you are not making a joke of it”––Mary-Clare’s face flushed––“but even if you are, I am going to tell you what I think. I must, you know.”
“That’s awfully good of you”––Northrup became earnest––“but it doesn’t matter now, I am going away. Let us talk of something else.”
Mary-Clare took this in silence. The only evidence of her surprise showed in the higher touch of colour that rose, then died out, leaving her almost pale.
“Then, there is all the more reason why I must tell you what I think,” she said at last.
The words came like sharp detached particles; they hurt.
“We must talk about the book!”
And Northrup suddenly caught the truth. The book was their common language. Only through that could they reach each other, understandingly.
“All right!” he murmured, and turned his face away.