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.