“Yes, it is. And so I shall keep on, and play the game that way––play it squarely with Vanya, too–––”
He had lost his heavy colour; he stood looking at her with a white, strained, grim expression that tightened the jaw muscles; and she felt his powerful hand clenching between hers.
“It’s no use,” he said between his set lips, “I’ve got to go on––see it through in my own fashion––this rotten thing called life. I’m sorry, Marya, that I’m not a better sport–––”
A wave of colour swept her face and her hands suddenly crushed his between them.
“You’re wonderful,” she said. “I do love you.”
But the tense, grey look had come back into his face. Looking at her in silence, presently his gaze seemed to become remote, his absent eyes fixed on something beyond her.
“I’ve a rotten time ahead of me,” he said, not knowing he had spoken. When his eyes reverted to her, his features remained expressionless, but his voice was almost tender as he said good night once more.
Her hands fell away; he opened the door and went out without looking back.
He found a taxi at the Plaza. He was swearing when he got into it. And all the way home he kept repeating to himself: “I’m one of those cursed, creeping Josephs; that’s what I am,––one of those pepless, sanctimonious, creeping Josephs.... And I always loathed that poor fish, too!”