“Well, do you want the twenty-five, or don't you?”
Gilfoyle pondered. If he questioned the source of the money he might find it out, and be unable to accept it. He wanted the money more than the hazardous information; so he said:
“Of course I want the twenty-five, darling, but I hate to rob you. Of course I'll send for you as soon as I can make a nest out there, but how will you get along?”
“Oh, I'll get along,” said Kedzie; “there'll be some movie-money coming to me Saturday.”
“Well, that's fine,” Gilfoyle said, feeling a weight of horrible guilt mingled with superior wings of relief. He hesitated, hemmed, hawed, perspired, and finally looked to that old source of so many escapes, his watch. “There's a train at eight-two; I could just about make it if I scoot now.”
“You'd better scoot,” said Kedzie. And she gave him the money.
“I'd like to have dinner with you,” Gilfoyle faltered, “but—”
“Yes, I'd like to have you, but—”
They looked at each other wretchedly. Their love was so lukewarm already that they bothered each other. There was no impulse to the delicious bitter-sweet of a passionate farewell. She was as eager to have him gone as he to go, and each blamed the other for that.
“I'll write you every day,” he said, “and I'll send the fare to you as soon as I can get it.”