"You think so, too, Delancy," he said, "because what is obvious and ready-made appeals to you. You think as you eat—heavily—and you miss a few things. That little Seagrave girl is charming. But you'd never discover it."
Grandcourt slowly removed the fat cigar from his lips, rolled it meditatively between thick forefinger and thumb:
"Do you know, Jack, that you've been saying that sort of thing to me for a number of years?"
"Yes; and it's just as true now as it ever was, old fellow."
"That may be; but did it ever occur to you that I might get tired hearing it.... And might, possibly, resent it some day?"
For a long time Dysart had been uncomfortably conscious that Grandcourt had had nearly enough of his half-sneering, half-humourous frankness. His liking for Grandcourt, even as a schoolboy, had invariably been tinged with tolerance and good-humoured contempt. Dysart had always led in everything; taken what he chose without considering Grandcourt—sometimes out of sheer perversity, he had taken what Grandcourt wanted—not really wanting it himself—as in the case of Rosalie Dene.
"What are you talking about resenting?—my monopolising your dinner partner?" asked Dysart, smiling. "Take her; amuse yourself. I don't want her."
Grandcourt inspected his cigar again. "I'm tired of that sort of thing, too," he said.
"What sort of thing?"
"Contenting myself with what you don't want."