What was it, then, that he found more interesting, more important, than their friendship, their companionship? Was she never to grow old enough, or wise enough, or experienced enough to exact—without exacting—his paramount consideration and interest? Was there no common level of mental equality where they could meet?—where termination of interviews might be mutual—might be fairer to her?
Now he went away, utterly detached from her and what concerned her—to seek other interests of which she knew nothing; absorbed in them to her utter exclusion, leaving her here with the long evening before her and nothing to do—because her eyes were not yet strong enough to use for reading.
Lansing was saying: "I'll drive as far as the club with you, and then you can drop me and come back later."
"Right, my son; I'll finish a letter and then come back—"
"Can't you write it at the club?"
"Not that letter," he replied in a low voice; and, turning to Eileen, smiled his absent, detached smile, offering his hand.
But she lay back, looking straight up at him.
"Are you going?"
"Yes; I have several—"
"Stay with me," she said in a low voice.