into Jean’s eyes and he lay there, his thin hands resting on his chest, for several minutes without speaking. Mimi waited. At last he stirred, smiling again at her, this time apologetically.
“We were happy there, weren’t we, Mimi? I’ve never been satisfied here. Too much rushing about, no time for living—real living. And you and I—we haven’t had the time here for the long walks we used to take when we were home. No—no—I’m not blaming you,” he assured her as she started to speak. “We’ve both been too busy—”
But Mimi felt a sting in the words. She knew there was none intended, it was her own conscience that lashed her. She wished fervently she had not been so selfish, that she had thought more of Jean. She knew now he had never been happy in Atlanta. His leisurely, reflective nature made him unhappy, he was wholly out of place anywhere save in some easygoing place like his beloved Louisiana.