“On twenty dollars a week? And without so much as asking her consent?” He dropped his light tone. “I'm not in a position to marry anybody. Even if Sidney cared for me, which she doesn't, of course—”
“Then you don't intend to interfere? You're going to let the Street see another failure?”
“I think you can understand,” said K. rather wearily, “that if I cared less, Christine, it would be easier to interfere.”
After all, Christine had known this, or surmised it, for weeks. But it hurt like a fresh stab in an old wound. It was K. who spoke again after a pause:—
“The deadly hard thing, of course, is to sit by and see things happening that one—that one would naturally try to prevent.”
“I don't believe that you have always been of those who only stand and wait,” said Christine. “Sometime, K., when you know me better and like me better, I want you to tell me about it, will you?”
“There's very little to tell. I held a trust. When I discovered that I was unfit to hold that trust any longer, I quit. That's all.”
His tone of finality closed the discussion. But Christine's eyes were on him often that evening, puzzled, rather sad.
They talked of books, of music—Christine played well in a dashing way. K. had brought her soft, tender little things, and had stood over her until her noisy touch became gentle. She played for him a little, while he sat back in the big chair with his hand screening his eyes.
When, at last, he rose and picked up his cap; it was nine o'clock.