But to Oliver it seems as if the floor
had come apart under his feet.
When he has failed so ludicrously and completely, Nancy has succeeded and
succeeded beyond even his own ideas of success. She can go to Paris and
have all they ever planned together, now; it has all bent down to her like
an apple on a swinging bough, all hers to take, from lunch at Prunier's
and sunset over the river to that perfect little apartment they know every
window of by heart--and he is no nearer it than he was eight months ago. He
has felt the pride in her voice and knows it as most human and justified,
but because he is young and unreasonable that pride of hers hurts his own.
And then there is something else. All through what she was saying it was
"I" that said, not "we."
"That's fine, Nancy," he says uncertainly. "That's certainly fine!"
But she knows by his voice in a second.
"Oh, Ollie, Ollie, of course I won't take it if it makes you feel that way,
dear. Why, I wouldn't do anything that would hurt you--but Ollie I don't
see how this can, how this could change things any way at all.
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