A steely glance went through David.
“Oh—she.” Tom spoke. And David knew that never, never could he speak of such things to his nearest friend. But he could speak of some things.
David came up to him. “Listen, Tom. Am I ever going to grow up?”
“I hope not, Davie—altogether.”
David sat down beside him. Tom went on: “I rushed home after a business date for dinner. Hoping to find you. I wanted to see you to-night.”
“Why?”
“For no literal reason, David.... Does one have to have a literal reason for seeing one’s friends? Eh? Does one?”
Suddenly, David was uncomfortable. He had felt strong entering the room. He had asked Tom if ever he was going to grow up because just then, perhaps more than at any other time, he felt mature. Now this fine mood faded. It was very strange. He could not adjust to Tom the discoveries of life he made without him. Three evenings before he had come home dancing with romance and Tom had cut his clouds. Now here he was, realistic like a god taking his mortal holiday: and Tom spoke of having missed him and of the love of friends. What was wrong here? Why could he not get rid of the ridiculous idea that Tom was always spoiling his pleasures?
“You don’t care for me very much,” there he was saying, “You don’t even come home anxious to see me.”
“I did to-night, Tom.”