“The tape line again. The eternal tape line! It’s pure waste of energy, Darley, to attempt to make you understand. As I said before, you’re fundamentally incapable.”
“Perhaps,” evenly. “But for your sake I’ve listened and tried. At least give me credit for that.” Of a sudden he glanced up keenly. “By the way, you’re not going out this evening?”
“No, Elice is out of town.” Armstrong caught himself. “I suppose that is what you meant.”
For a moment before he answered Roberts busied himself with a stray flake of ash on his sleeve.
“Yes, in a way,” he said. “I was going to suggest that you tell her what you told me before you said ‘no’ to Graham.”
“It’s unnecessary.” The tone was a trifle stiff. “She at least understands me.”
The other man made no comment.
“You’re not going out either this evening, Darley?” returned Armstrong.
“No; I’m scheduled for bed early to-night. 21 I’ve had a strenuous day, and to-morrow will be another.”
It was already late of a rainy May evening, the room was getting dim, and silently Armstrong turned on the electric light. Following, in equal silence, his companion watching him the while understandingly, he lit a pipe. Stephen Armstrong seldom descended to a pipe, and when he did so the meaning of the action to one who knew him well was lucid. It meant confidence. Back in his seat he puffed hard for a half minute; then blew at the smoke above his head.