Chapter 23
“Oh,moreorless.”Ifancymysmilewaspale.“Notabsolutely.Weshouldn’tlikethat!”Iwenton.
“No—Isupposeweshouldn’t.Ofcoursewehavetheothers.”
“Wehavetheothers—wehaveindeedtheothers,”Iconcurred.
“Yeteventhoughwehavethem,”hereturned,stillwithhishandsinhispocketsandplantedthereinfrontofme,“theydon’tmuchcount,dothey?”
Imadethebestofit,butIfeltwan.“Itdependsonwhatyoucall‘much’!”
“Yes”—withallaccommodation—“everythingdepends!”Onthis,however,hefacedtothewindowagainandpresentlyreacheditwithhisvague,restless,cogitatingstep.Heremainedthereawhile,withhisforeheadagainsttheglass,incontemplationofthestupidshrubsIknewandthedullthingsofNovember.Ihadalwaysmyhypocrisyof“work,”behindwhich,now,Igainedthesofa.SteadyingmyselfwithitthereasIhadrepeatedlydoneatthosemomentsoftormentthatIhavedescribedasthemomentsofmyknowingthechildrentobegiventosomethingfromwhichIwasbarred,Isufficientlyobeyedmyhabitofbeingpreparedfortheworst.ButanextraordinaryimpressiondroppedonmeasIextractedameaningfromtheboy’sembarrassedback—noneotherthantheimpressionthatIwasnotbarrednow.Thisinferencegrewinafewminutestosharpintensityandseemedboundupwiththedirectperceptionthatitwaspositivelyhewhowas.Theframesandsquaresofthegreatwindowwereakindofimage,forhim,ofakindoffailure.