"Well——" (He said it sadly.) "Do you write in this room? At that table?"
"Yes."
He looked at the table as if he thought it all very interesting and very incomprehensible and very sad. He looked at the books on the shelf close to the table and read George Tanqueray's name on them. He frowned slightly at the books and turned away.
She sat down. He did not take the chair she indicated, but chose another where he could see her rather better. He was certainly a man who knew his own mind.
"I've called," he said, "a great many times. But I've always missed you."
"So at last you gave it up? Like everybody else."
"Does it look as if I'd given it up?"
She could not say it did.
"No," he said. "I never give anything up. In that I'm not like everybody else."
He wasn't, she reflected. And yet somehow he ought to have been. There was nothing so very remarkable about him.