"You must find it," she said at last.
With compressed lips and lowering brow the young man thought it out. "I give you all I can—"
"And I take as little as I can."
"I'm sick of these discussions about money."
"So'm I."
"It seems as if we were sick of the whole thing, doesn't it?"
Being a woman, she dared not confirm verbally those reckless words; their very recklessness caused her to fear. If they were sick of the whole thing—well, what about it? What were they to do? They were in it, weren't they, up to their necks? Of two people who mutually recognised the plight, only one must foam and rage and stutter out unpalatable truths about it; it was for the other to pour on the oil, to deceive and pretend and propitiate and cajole, to try to keep things running and the creaking machinery at work.
Because—what else remained to do?
But when Osborn rapped out: "It seems as if we were sick of the whole thing, doesn't it?" though she would not confirm this in words, her silence confirmed it, her silence and her look. They made him hesitate and catch his breath.
"Well?" he asked.