Armstrong smiled forcedly, a slow, mirthless smile. “Never mind about myself. I’ve glowed genially for a long time, tried after my own fashion to warm a hearth somewhere; but at last I’m burned out, nothing but cinders. Never mind about myself. The discussion is futile.”
Randall hesitated; then he gestured impotently.
“Elice, then—For her sake at least—”
“It’s for her sake I’ll do it, because she’ll never do it herself. I repeat, I can at least be man enough to do that much for her, make amends to that extent.” He looked straight before him, seeing nothing. “She’ll be happy yet, when I’m well out of the way.”
“Steve!” Argument would not come, rebuttal; only that cry that acknowledged its own helplessness. “I can’t bear to have things go that way. I know you both so well, like you so much.”
“I realize that,” dully; “but it’s not your fault,—not any one’s fault in particular that I can see.”
Randall did not gesture this time. Even that avenue seemed barred.
“If I could only say something to influence you, to convince you—something adequate.” 142
“There’s nothing to be said that I can see, or done, for that matter. It’s like a church catechism, cut and dried generations ahead.”
It was the final word, and for a long time they sat there silent, unconscious of the passing minutes; alike gazing at the blank wall which circumstance had thrown in the way, alike looking for an opening where opening there was none. At last, when the silence had become unbearable, Randall roused, and with an effort forced a commonplace.