“It isn't that, Grigg.”
At the moment Withery could say no more. He sank into a chair by the door, depressed in spirit.
Doane walked to the window; looked out at the stars; drummed a moment on the glass.
“It's been uphill work, Henry... since nineteen hundred.”
Withery cleared his throat. “It isn't that,” he repeated unsteadily.
Doane stood there a moment longer; then turned and gazed gloomily at his friend.
The silence grew painful.
Finally, Doane sighed, spread his hands in the manner of one who surrenders to fate, and came slowly over to the bed; stretching out his long frame there, against the pillows.
“So it's as plain as that, Henry.”
“It is—to me.”