"What side?"
"That of personal convenience."
"Yes. Why not?"
"I don't know. Where is it landing you?"
"I haven't gone into that very thoroughly." There was a trace of irritation in Dysart's voice; he passed one hand over his forehead; it was icy, and the hair on it damp. "What the devil do you want of me, anyway?" he asked.
"Nothing.... I have never wanted anything of you, have I?"
Dysart walked the width of the room, then the length of it, then came and stood by the table, resting on it with one thin hand, in which his damp handkerchief was crushed to a wad.
"What is it you've got to say, Delancy? Is it about that loan?"
"No. Have you heard a word out of me about it?"
"You've been devilish glum. Good God, I don't blame you; I ought not to have touched it; I must have been crazy to let you try to help me——"