“Good-night.”
So David could not go on.
But he went to Cornelia, to whom he knew he could speak.
“I don’t think,” he said, “I am going back ever again to see Miss Daindrie.”
Cornelia’s heart stopped its beat. “I am glad—I am—no, I can’t be glad.” Sense and will turmoiled against each other. David saw her sitting quiet there, looking at him. It was quite natural, he thought, that she could not understand. He had come to tell her. It came to him: “She must think it funny that I should tell her this. What can it matter to Cornelia?”
Cornelia, feeling he would go on and that for this he had come and that himself would tell her what to do, began to go deeper into his coming. He had sought her out: this was rare: for a rare incentive. He had sought her out because he needed to talk about Helen. To no one else could he talk. From no one else could he hope for the persuasion he wanted: to send him back to her. Here was a problem that hurt him. She could smoothe it. For this he had run to her. When she had done her part, he would leave her and go back to Helen, he would live and play once more....
“What is it, Davie?” she asked aloud. She was ready for her part.
“I am not—not good enough for her, Cornelia.”
Good enough to come to her when she could soothe him: not good enough for Helen.... “How do you know that, David?”
“Because I know some one who is.... Conrad Westerling is good enough for Helen. I admire him immensely. I know he loves her. I know it hurts him when I am there. I have seen that. Why should I hurt him, Cornelia?”