He scarcely noticed Natalie's withdrawal from Graham and himself. When she was around he was his old punctilious self, gravely kind, more than ever considerate. Beside his failure to her, her own failure to him faded into insignificance. She was as she was, and through no fault of hers. But he was what he had made himself.
Once or twice he had felt an overwhelming remorse toward her, and on one such occasion he had made a useless effort to break down the barrier of her long silence.
“Don't go up-stairs, Natalie,” he had begged. “I am not very amusing, I know, but—I'll try my best. I'll promise not to touch on anything disagreeable.” He had been standing in the hail, looking up at her on the stair-case, and he smiled. There was pleading behind the smile, an inarticulate feeling that between them there might at least be friendship.
“You are never disagreeable,” she had said, looking down with hostile eyes. “You are quite perfect.”
“Then won't you wait?”
“Perfection bores me to tears,” she said, and went on up the stairs.
On the morning of Graham's departure, however, he found her prepared to go to the railway-station. She was red-eyed and pale, and he was very sorry for her.
“Do you think it is wise?” he asked.
“I shall see him off, of course. I may never see him again.”
And his own tautened nerves almost gave way.