“Did, I suppose, only I hoped it wasn't. I'm damn sorry, Ollie.
“Thanks, Ted.”
They shake hands, but not theatrically.
“Oh well—oh hell—oh dammit, you know how blasted sorry I am. That's all I can say, I guess—”
“Well, so am I. And it was my fault, chiefly. And that's all I can say.”
“Look here, though.” Ted's voice is doing its best to be logical in spite of the fact that two things, the fact that he is unutterably sorry for Oliver and the fact that he mustn't show it in silly ways, are fighting in him like wrestlers. “Are you sure it's as bad as all that? I mean girls—-” Ted flounders hopelessly between his eagerness to help and his knowledge that it will take ungodly tact. “I mean, Nancy's different all right—but they change their minds—and they come around—and—”
Oliver spreads out his hands. It is somehow queerly comforting not to let himself be comforted in any degree. “What's the use? Tried to explain—got her mother—Nancy was out but she certainly left a message—easier if we never saw each other again—well—Then she sent back everything—she knew I'd tried to phone her—tried to explain—never a word since then except my name and address on the package—oh it's over, Ted. Feenee. But it's pretty well smashed me. For the present, at least.”
“But if you started it,” Ted says stubbornly.
“Oh I did, of course—gentlemanly supposition anyhow—that's why—don't you see?”
“Can't say I do exactly.”