Of course it had appeared occasionally for all of that but Helen had made the occasions infrequent. She had always liked that prejudice of his. As she looked at him to-night she thought he looked tired. There were strained lines around his eyes, and he was very silent.
She said several little things and then, because avoidance of the big topic seemed impossible, joined him in his silence. He looked at her at last, smiling a little. It was not the smile of a rancorous man but rather a hurt smile, a forced smile of one who is going to go through pain wearing it.
“I have been congratulated all the way home on your account, Helen. It seems to have been a landslide for you.”
“There was hardly any opposition.” It was meager but she could not go on without seeming to run into a forbidden or aching subject.
There they had to stop. Helen had a vision of the closed topics between them, a sudden horror of this cleavage. Suppose he didn’t see that he was foolish, that she was not treating him badly, that she must lay up something for herself as a person against the day when he himself might weary of her as a woman. Fiercely she recast her arguments in her own mind. Yet there was that tired look in his eyes. You can fight rancor but not weariness.
“How is Miss Thorstad getting on?”
“Fine. It was a great hunch. You know she actually saves me a lot of thinking. It shows that a girl with wits is worth half a dozen expert stenographers. She has an air about her that is dignified and calm and yet she’s not a stick.”
“I imagine there’s a volcanic soul under that rather calm exterior.”
“Perhaps.”
“Gage, you look tired.”