"No." Her head shook. "No. Only Gene Michaelis--he swore that accident was Bruce's fault. He almost had Bruce thinking so. You didn't see Bruce then. You didn't see how he was affected by it, his old friend biting at him like a dog, accusing him and his sister of--" She gave Kintyre a blurred look. "That was how Bruce and I started to live together. There was nothing else that would help him. He'd already proposed to me. I didn't want to get married again--to him--to get married. And he'd had no thought in his silly head of being anything but a gentleman. Sure. I practically shanghaied him into bed with me. What else would get that thing off his mind, Gene Michaelis lying on the highway with both legs mashed? Gene was the only person who ever hated Bruce, and just being hated nearly destroyed him. He couldn't have made any other enemies--knowingly--he wasn't able to!" _That's not quite true_, thought Kintyre briefly. _Jabez Owens._ Margery's voice had risen raggedly, and her nails bit his palm. He stood up, pulling her after him by the wrist, and said: "Come on. We're getting out of here." "What?" She blinked at him, as if waking from sleep. "You're tired and scared and lonesome and hungry, and none of it is good. We're going out to dinner, and we'll talk about Bruce or whatever else you want, but we're going out." "I have to work tomorrow," she protested. "Cannonballs! Tell 'em you're down with Twonk's Disease and need the rest of the week off. Now grab your purse." She followed him then, shivering. He drove her car slowly, to give her and the drink within her time; he spoke of trivia. She hung back a moment when he had parked outside one of Oakland's first-class restaurants. "You can't afford this, Bob," she said. "If you mention money once again, I'm going to wash your mouth out with five-dollar bills," he snapped. "Old greasy ones." She smiled. "You know," she said, "you aren't so unlike Bruce after all. I remember how he also used to go out of his way for people. And then once when I tried to praise him for it, he answered, 'Ah, I'm no God damned saint.'" "Sounds like Bruce," agreed Kintyre. "He worshiped you," she said over the cocktails. "Did you know how much? You were everything he could dream of being, a traveler, an athlete, a scholar. He was even thinking of doing his military service in the Navy, because that's where you were. And then you treated him as an equal! You did more to make him happy than anyone else." "I'd say you did," he parried, embarrassed.