The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. I. “Tut, tut!” he said. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. She resolved to go into the City to Ramage and ask for his advice. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. Her whole conduct and tone had been modest and ladylike. There is something inconglomerate about us. He thought rationally; that is to say, he thought clearly, as a child thinks clearly.
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