He went.
Blanche turned mockingly to Pen. "Now, darling!"
Pen felt dimly that her flippant mockery concealed a sort of despair. She could admire the little creature's gameness and hardihood, but could not possibly meet her on that ground. It rendered her helpless. Meanwhile Blanche took a fresh cigarette, and called Pen's attention to the packet with a jerk of her head. Pen shook her head.
"Well, don't stand there like a wax-work in a store-window," said Blanche. "Disjoint yourself."
Pen sat in an armchair with her back to one of the windows. She groped within herself for something to go on with. But she felt empty. Blanche moved restlessly around the room; plumped herself on the edge of the bed, and jumped up again. She glanced at Pen with increasing irritation. Apparently a silence drove her wild.
"You're so different from what I expected," Pen murmured at last, "I scarcely know how to begin."
"What did you expect?" queried Blanche. "A singing canary?"
"I don't know ... I got the idea from the newspaper that you were in trouble."
Blanche stared, then laughed metallically. "Not me!" she said coolly. "I wasn't born yesterday."
Pen perceived the nature of the misunderstanding, and blushed. "I mean, I thought you'd lost somebody ... that you cared for."