Nanda faltered, and for somewhat longer. “How should I see? What do I know of your hand?”
He looked at her hard. “You HAVE seen it.”
“Oh—so little!” she replied with a faint smile.
“Do you mean I’ve not written to you for so long? Surely I did in—when was it?”
“Yes, when? But why SHOULD you?” she asked in quite a different tone.
He was not prepared on this with the right statement, and what he did after a moment bring out had for the occasion a little the sound of the wrong. “The beauty of YOU is that you’re too good; which for me is but another way of saying you’re too clever. You make no demands. You let things go. You don’t allow in particular for the human weakness that enjoys an occasional glimpse of the weakness of others.”
She had deeply attended to him. “You mean perhaps one doesn’t show enough what one wants?”
“I think that must be it. You’re so fiendishly proud.”
She appeared again to wonder. “Not too much so, at any rate, only to want from YOU—”
“Well, what?”