“You are unhappy?” he said slowly.
“No.”
“Is that the truth, I wonder?”
“I am restless,” she said after a moment.
He knew to insist on the avenue she thus opened to him meant the approach to a perilous understanding. Like all who have loved and have reached that point where they perceive life must be readjusted, he began by recoiling. Something seemed to close cruelly about his heart strings. He had a sudden horror of what might come, the dread of the very change he knew was inevitable. He rose, moving aimlessly, sought out his pipe, but without filling it. Then he returned to his seat, looked at Inga still staring ahead and said:
“What do you want to say to me? You can talk out freely. I shall understand now.”
“He has written me again,” she said slowly.
“And the first time,—did you answer?”
She shook her head.
“No.”