“Well?”
“Well?”
“We're both of us too proud, Ted. And too poor. And starting again—can't you—visualize—it wouldn't be the way it was—only both of us thinking about that all the time—and still we couldn't get married. I've got less right than ever, now—oh, but how could we after what we've said—” and this time his voice has lost all the attitudes of youth, it is singularly older and seems to come from the center of a place full of pain.
“I wish I could help, though, Ollie. You know,” says Ted.
“Wish you could.” Then later, “Thanks.” “Welcome.”
Both smoke and are silent for a time, remembering small things out of the last eight years.
“But what are you going to do, Ollie, now you've kissed the great god Advertising a fond good-by?”
Ollie stirs uneasily.
“Dunno—exactly. I told you about those two short stories Easten wanted me to take out of my novel? Well, I've done it and sent 'em in—and he'll buy 'em all right.”
“That's fine!”