"Of course," he admitted calmly, "it isn't pleasant, but I suppose one must make the best of a bad bargain."
There was silence for a while, then he said suddenly, "I think I realize, Claire, that a blind man is at best a poor companion for a woman who is accustomed to being amused, and whose interests are those of the society glow-worm."
Claire resented the picture, but she kept her voice steady. "Surely at home you had your own social group," she said pleasantly.
"Of a sort, yes. We were all workers, not going in much for form, entertainment, and that sort of thing. We generally sat in the gallery at the opera, and did mostly as we pleased everywhere. None of us were rolling in wealth. We worked for the love of it, and looked to the future for pay."
"I see." She was thinking fast. "You were struggling young artists." Her voice was sugar-coated.
"We were struggling young artizans," he answered, seemingly indifferent to her irony.
As he made slower progress when he talked, she did not attempt to carry on the conversation. The stops for rest were gradually lengthening out, and he was getting hard and wiry so that his endurance was greater. He was quicker at catching himself when he stumbled, and he did not puff so hard between grades. Claire felt the easier swing of his body when he walked, and noticed that he was growing surer of foot and more graceful in movement, and she realized that except for his eyes he was a splendid specimen of manhood. She now admitted all these things to herself, but they only added to her feeling against him. She wondered if he had been as indifferent to all women as he was to her, and was displeased that she wondered.
Suddenly Lawrence stopped and put her down by his side. Claire looked up at him and saw his forehead gathering in a frown.
"What is it?" she asked anxiously.
"You are letting your thoughts obstruct your eyes," he said simply. "I have walked into three boulders without your knowing it."