* * * * *
Mr. Nicholson had come back on Friday as he had said.
III.
He put down his scratching pen and was leaning back in his chair, looking at her.
She wondered what he was thinking. Sometimes the space of the room was enormous between her table by the first tall window and his by the third; sometimes it shrank and brought them close. It was bringing them close now.
"You can't see the text for the footnotes," she said. "The notes must go in the Appendix."
She wanted to make herself forget that all her own things, the things she had saved from the last burning, were lying there on his table, staring at her. She was trying not to look that way, not to let herself imagine for a moment that he had read them.
"Never mind the notes and the Appendix."
He had got up. He was leaning now against the tall shutter of her window, looking down at her.
"Why didn't you tell me? Before I let you in for that horrible drudgery? All that typing and indexing—If I'd only known you were doing anything like this…. Why couldn't you have told me?"