Save for the studied clarity of voice he showed no theatrical traits. He resented the sign of The Plume of Feathers beside the West Gate because “it spoiled the wall.” He asked if the Butter Cross was a well and bought several postcards at a shop where the squared panes arrested him. Olive made conjectures. She was twenty-six. She had known actors in some bulk. This wasn’t an actor, observably. She guided him back toward the college and through a swarm of lads in flannels. At these Mark looked and sighed.
“Why that sob?”
“Dunno. I s’pose because kids are havin’ such an awful good time and don’t know it. I mean—they’ll get married and all that.”
“Are you married?”
Mark said cheerfully, “Divorced.”
“Tell me about it.”
“D—don’t think I’d better, Mrs. Ilden.”
“Is that American?”
“Is—is what?”
“That delicate respect for my sensibilities.”