“He is the dullest man I have seen in a year. I didn’t cut short my trip, you know, to dine with your stray cats.”
“I suspected you couldn’t go him.... I knew something was the matter....”
... That was long since: that could not happen now. Tom sat over his sleeping friend on the floor and had this thought: “He feels differently now.” Of a sudden a twinge strangely akin to guilt went through him. What was he thinking about indeed? He had wanted to be with David those idle days. David had not had the same wish so strongly since he had spoiled their first evening together. Perhaps now in a like case he might wish more strongly. What was there unusual—guilty—in that? He had no desire to seal David hermetically from the world. Surely he showed the contrary intentions. Was he not introducing him to his friends? David had had a full ten days, and he ten empty ones. Another time, David might be the eager one. What was he troubling himself about?...
David lay still and asleep on the floor. David was up, brandishing his arms, and his eyes sleepless as a day after hours of sun.
“I am off for a spin.” David was devoted to his bicycle. “What are you doing this afternoon?”
Tom seemed to search up and down with his head. “I can’t think of anything.”
“Good! Then, you’ll join us on our walk later on. We’re going to Bronx Park: and have a supper of popcorn—three colors—hot-dogs and sauerkraut and ice-cream soda.”
“Who are?”
“Why, Cornelia and I—and you.”
“I don’t like the bill-o’-fare.”