“No, that isn’t the reason.... I don’t know what it is.”
“Are you tired, perhaps?” she asked with a winning concern in her voice, that now always seemed to stir within him those vague depths hitherto unsuspected.
Her mantel-clock tinkled the quarter-hour.
They both looked up at it.
“Well,” he said, “you must go to your work.”
“It’s annoying, isn’t it?”
“It’s the way I feel about my work, too,” he said. “I’d rather be with you.”
For a moment she did not notice the analogy. Then she turned and her face flushed in comprehension.
Neither spoke for a moment. Then she rose, went to her bed-room, pulled on her hat, and came slowly out, not looking at him.
As she moved toward the door his hand, lightly, then his arm detained her, drew her to him face to face, held her in slightest contact.