The abruptness of the thing almost overwhelmed him. The contrast between her gaiety in dealing with Bardek and the almost bitter seriousness of the present mood was a shock.
His excuses she listened to without a word of interruption. He began by showing that when he found schools for her his business as educational agent was at an end. Then his university teaching, his studying, his writings, and the care of his little charges, who could not always go to expensive schools, all that had absorbed him. Besides, the old group had broken up of its own accord—one of those accidental, unplanned things that happen. His year in Germany, too, had made an unlooked for break. There he ended.
“When you were in Germany,” she spoke with great deliberation, “I wrote to you. Didn’t you get the letter?”
“Why, yes—to be sure, I did. Of course, I did—eh—Didn’t I answer it?”
“You know you did not.”
He knew, and showed it painfully.
“Why?” she kept to the point.
He couldn’t exactly say; he was always careless; wretched personal habits he had.
“I am asking you a question. Why did you not answer my letter?”
“Oh, how can I tell you, Gorgas,” he writhed, but she was merciless.