“Great Heavens! What a horror—what a nightmare of a hole!” he said, gazing about him.
“Then why not fix it up?”
If he heard the question he did not answer it, staring glumly into the disorder, his fist doubled against his teeth, biting at his nails, a convulsive, aggressive gesture characteristic of him.
“Let’s unpack things and fix up the studio,” she repeated.
He shook his head, plainly annoyed, and, after a moment, came back, as though some gust of emotion had whirled through him and left a lull of fatigue.
“Talk to me,” he said, sinking down limply. “Tell me about yourself.” But immediately he broke in upon his own mood, saying abruptly: “So you think I am down and out, don’t you?”
“No—I don’t think that,” she said gently. “That’s what you think.”
“Well, I am,” he said vehemently. “Do you know what’s wrong?” he added sharply, and, as she continued to watch him, he laughed and said: “No, no; I won’t tell you that. Find out.”
She laid her hand on his shoulder again, to still the rising excitement in his voice.
“Why didn’t you call me before?”