Don took the eyeshade which he had been wearing at work since his illness, and put it on; it covered his face like the peak of a cap drawn down over his eyes. "I only told her because I didn't believe it. If I had supposed it was true, I shouldn't have troubled myself."
Conroy grunted. "You made a deuce of a lot of trouble out of nothing."
"That's all the thanks I got for it. . . . Where's your stuff?"
"In my rooms."
Thereafter, they talked perfunctorily about moving their trunks and making their arrangements with Mrs. Stewart; but the tone in which Don had spoken about the "thanks" he had received for his interference in the affair of the photograph, stuck in Conroy's thought; and when they were undressing for bed together, in a more friendly sympathy, he asked suddenly: "When did you see her last?"
Don replied: "I haven't seen her at all."
"Since when?"
"Since that night—with the photograph."
After a silence, Conroy said: "I met her on the street while you were sick, and told her what was the matter with you. I think she asked because she was wondering why you hadn't been around to call."
"Well, you were mistaken."
"She asked me again, a few weeks ago—at a public lecture."
Don said, to end the discussion: "She told me, that night, that she'd never speak to me again."
Conroy laughed. "Oh, I know. She told me that, too.
