"A bit rash that, isn't it?" he asked, as he cut his cigar.
"You won't ask me anything that I don't want you to," she answered. "And you know there are some things I can't give you."
Coffee was brought in, and he offered her sugar, knowing well—if he had been able to collect himself—that she never took it. Her cigarette went out and required another match. A pile of five books, still in their wrappers, absorbed her.
It was only half-past ten when she forced a yawn and asked him to get her a taxi. He collected a coat and hat from the hall and arranged his muffler elaborately with his back to her.
"Returning to the other thing," he began slowly. "We've not exactly disposed of it, have we?"
"I thought we were going to leave it alone," she answered timidly.
"That's out of the question." He banged open his opera hat and squeezed it shut again. "Why won't you have a simple contradiction in the press?" he pleaded.
"I don't want it. Isn't that enough?"
"Certainly. But … I don't want to say good-bye, if I can help it."
Barbara looked at him slowly and carefully; she was utterly at fault.