No answer, although the fingers halted.
“Steve!”
Still no answer; but bit by bit the hand retreated.
“Steve,” repeated, “sit down, please; please, I say. Let’s talk this matter over a little rationally. People have changed their minds before, some few billions of them—and made good afterward too. Have a little patience, man, and sit down. I have a proposition to make to you.”
Reluctantly Armstrong obeyed. His face was still unnaturally pale and he was breathing hard, but he obeyed. Back in his seat he waited a second, uncertain; with an effort he faced his companion fairly.
“I—realize I’m an ass, Darley,” he began, hesitantly, “and that this sort of thing is melodramatically cheap.” The white had left his face now and words were coming more easily. “I won’t attempt to apologize, I just simply admit the truth. I’ve lost my grip this evening.”
“Forget it.” The voice was commonplace. “Just forget it.” 97
“I can’t; I’m not built that way; but I wish you would. If there’s one thing I hate more than another it’s cheap heroics.”
“I know it—and understand. Let it go at that.”
“Thank you. All right.” It was matter of fact, but such with an effort. “Let’s hear your proposition.”