She opened and read it at once. She wished she had not stood up. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours. Voilà tout. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. “That’s it,” she said. "There'll be a louder echo here presently," thought Jonathan. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. His analytical bent saved him many times, though he was not sensitive to this. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six.
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