meditatively between thick forefinger and thumb:

"Do you know, Jack, that you've been saying that sort of thing to me for
a number of years?"

"Yes; and it's just as true now as it ever was, old fellow."

"That may be; but did it ever occur to you that I might get tired
hearing it.... And might, possibly, resent it some day?"

For a long time Dysart had been uncomfortably conscious that Grandcourt
had had nearly enough of his half-sneering, half-humourous frankness.
His liking for Grandcourt, even as a schoolboy, had invariably
been tinged with tolerance and good-humoured contempt. Dysart had
always led in everything; taken what he chose without considering
Grandcourt--sometimes out of sheer perversity, he had taken what
Grandcourt wanted--not really wanting it himself--as in the case of
Rosalie Dene.

"What are you talking about resenting?--my monopolising your dinner
partner?" asked Dysart, smiling. "Take her; amuse yourself. I don't want
her."

Grandcourt inspected his cigar again. "I'm tired of that sort of thing,
too," he said.

"What sort of thing?"

"Contenting myself with what you don't want."