THE SACRED FOUNT
"What do you mean," he asked, "by everything?"
"Well, this failure of detachment. What you said to me as we were going up yesterday afternoon to dress—what you said to me then is responsible for it. And since it comes to that," I pursued, "I make out for myself now that you're not detached either—unless, that is, simply detached from me. I had indeed a suspicion of that as I passed through the room there."
He smoked through another pause. "You've extraordinary notions of responsibility."
I watched him a moment, but he only stared at the books without looking round. Something in his voice had made me more certain, and my certainty made me laugh. "I see you are serious!"
But he went on quietly enough. "You've extraordinary notions of responsibility. I deny altogether mine."
"You are serious—you are!" I repeated with a gaiety that I meant as inoffensive and that I believe remained so. "But no matter. You're no worse than I."
"I'm clearly, by your own story, not half so bad. But, as you say, no matter. I don't care."
I ventured to keep it up. "Oh, don't you?"
His good nature was proof. "I don't care."
"Then why didn't you so much as look at me a while ago?"
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