“Good-night,” she said, looking up at him.  The faintest sense of disappointment came over her—­at what, she did not know.  Was it because, in his completely altered face she realised the instant and easy detachment from herself, and what concerned her?—­was it because other people, like Mr. Lansing—­other interests—­like those which so plainly, in his face, betrayed his preoccupation—­had so easily replaced an intimacy which had seemed to grow newer and more delightful with every meeting?

What was it, then, that he found more interesting, more important, than their friendship, their companionship?  Was she never to grow old enough, or wise enough, or experienced enough to exact—­without exacting—­his paramount consideration and interest?  Was there no common level of mental equality where they could meet?—­where termination of interviews might be mutual—­might be fairer to her?

Now he went away, utterly detached from her and what concerned her—­to seek other interests of which she knew nothing; absorbed in them to her utter exclusion, leaving her here with the long evening before her and nothing to do—­because her eyes were not yet strong enough to use for reading.

Lansing was saying:  “I’ll drive as far as the club with you, and then you can drop me and come back later.”

“Right, my son; I’ll finish a letter and then come back—­”

“Can’t you write it at the club?”

“Not that letter,” he replied in a low voice; and, turning to Eileen, smiled his absent, detached smile, offering his hand.

But she lay back, looking straight up at him.

“Are you going?”

“Yes; I have several—­”

“Stay with me,” she said in a low voice.

For a moment the words meant nothing; then blank surprise silenced him, followed by curiosity.

“Is there something you wished to tell me?” he asked.

“N-no.”

His perplexity and surprise grew.  “Wait a second, Boots,” he said; and Mr. Lansing, being a fairly intelligent young man, went out and down the stairway.

“Now,” he said, too kindly, too soothingly, “what is it, Eileen?”

“Nothing.  I thought—­but I don’t care.  Please go, Captain Selwyn.”

“No, I shall not until you tell me what troubles you.”

“I can’t.”

“Try, Eileen.”

“Why, it is nothing; truly it is nothing. . . .  Only I was—­it is so early—­only a quarter past eight—­”

He stood there looking down at her, striving to understand.

“That is all,” she said, flushing a trifle; “I can’t read and I can’t sew and there’s nobody here. . . .  I don’t mean to bother you—­”

“Child,” he exclaimed, “do you want me to stay?”

“Yes,” she said; “will you?”

He walked swiftly to the landing outside and looked down.

“Boots!” he called in a low voice, “I’m not going home yet.  Don’t wait for me at the Lenox.”