"Why, I—"
It was no glad eager light that took the place of dread. It was consternation, a manifest, involuntary shrinking from what he asked. . . . Then she was in like case with him. He had not counted on that.
He felt his heart turning hard and cold; and that was not the way of the gentleness he had planned. He, too, had shrunk from what he asked; yet he had not hesitated to ask it, thinking to save her from some hurt. She, without the key, thought only of the loss of her good times. He could tell her the whole truth and she would not care—if it led to good times. Couldn't she see, couldn't she feel, the tragedy in this end of their once pretty romance? Since she could not, why try to save her from a hurt she would never really know?
Yet he went on, though not just as he had planned.
"So you do think it bad luck? Don't you ever want to go back, Shirley?"
"That's foolish. Of course I do. But—but the debts aren't paid yet."
"Pretty nearly. If we're careful we can clean them up quickly now."
"But it seems so foolish—and so unnecessary. We could wait a little longer. The salary is so small at best. How—how should we live?"
"Very simply, I fear. But," he added, in the same even, repressed tone, "always within our means, I'm sure. We'll go to a boarding-house first and then look around for an apartment we can afford. We'll be starting over again, Shirley."
"But—" She was still stammering. "But it's been so good for Davy here. And the weather's still warm—"