For a half-moment we said nothing, and frowningly he turned away. Always he radiated the security that comes of fixed position, a past without challenge, a future provided for; but tonight I was conscious only of the quiet excellence of his clothes, his physical well-being, the unescapableness of his eyes, and the cut of his chin. He is a most determined person. So am I—which perhaps accounts for our rather stormy friendship.
"Don't you think I have a very nice home?" I took my seat in a corner of the big chintz-covered sofa in front of the fire and close to the long table with its lighted lamp and books and magazines, and motioned him to sit down. "I'm entirely fixed. I hope you like this room. I love it. I've never had one of my very own before."
"It's very pretty."
Selwyn took his seat without looking around. He did not know whether it was pretty or not. He was not at all interested in the room.
For a moment he looked at me with eyes narrowed and his forehead ridged in tiny, perpendicular folds. Presently he leaned forward, his hands between his knees and fingers interlocked.
"How long do you propose to stay down here?" he asked.
"I really do not know. I thought you were going to congratulate me upon living the life I want to live."
"I do. Until you get this thing out of your system—"
"What thing?" I, too, leaned forward. The tone of his voice made something in me flare. "What thing?" I repeated.
Selwyn's shoulders shrugged slightly. He sat up, then leaned back, his hands in his pockets. "Why discuss it? You've long wanted to do something of this sort. Until it was done you would never be content. What you want to do, I doubt if you know yourself. Are you slumming? Uplifting?"