"Valerie, dear, I could"—he checked himself; thought for a while until the strain of his set teeth aroused him to consciousness of his own emotion.
Rather white he looked at her, searching for the best phrase—for it was already threatening to be a matter of phrases now—of forced smiles—and some breathing spot fit for the leisure of self-examination.
"I'm going back to paint," he said. "Those commissions have waited long enough."
He strove to visualise his studio, to summon up the calm routine of the old regime—as though the colourless placidity of the past could steady him.
"Will you need me?" she asked.
"Later—of course. Just now I've a lot of men's figures to deal with—that symbolical affair for the new court house."
"Then you don't need me?"
"No."
She thought a moment, slim fingers resting on the knob of her door, standing partly turned away from him. Then, opening her door, she stepped inside, hesitated, looked back:
"Good-bye, Louis, dear," she said, gently.