I'm sure you haven't, in
spite of what the girls say about men."
He was cut by an unbearably sharp, a knife-like, regret that he had
ever, with Fanny, departed from the utmost truth. Lee Randon had a
sudden vision, born of that feeling returning from the shed, of the
illimitable tranquility, the release from all triviality, of an honesty
beyond equivocation or assault. Fanny, in her way, possessed it; but
that, he saw, was made vulnerable, open to disaster, through her love
for him. It was necessary, for complete safety, to be entirely
insulated from the humanity of emotions. That condition he
instinctively put from his thoughts as being as undesirable as it was
beyond realization. Lee, with all his vitality, drew away from a
conception, a figure, with the cold immobility of death. After all, he
reassured himself, he had never essentially lied to Fanny; he had
merely suppressed some unnecessary details in order to make their
existence smoother. The welcome collapse of his small affair with
Anette proved the wisdom of avoiding the exaggeration and difficulty of
explanations.
"Lee," Fanny said, changing the direction of their thoughts, "I don't
want to bother you, but I am uneasy about Claire and Peyton. He hasn't
left Mina Raff a minute this evening. And he has such an unhappy
expression, not at all as though he were enjoying himself."
"I noticed that," Lee agreed; "but it will do him no good with Mina--
she's a cold potato, career's the only thing in her head.
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