"Oh, I don't know. Nothing, I suppose. You seem headed toward his, ah--" Owens paused delicately--"his fiancée's place. I gathered from someone's remark, she lives in this area." "Uh-huh." "Charming girl. Poor Lombardi. She is so good a reason for not dying. Please give her my regrets. Ah--a moment more, if you will." "Yes?" Kintyre was turning to go; he stopped. Owens flushed. "Don't misunderstand me. It's none of my business, certainly. But I'd say at a guess I am a good fifteen years older than you, and perhaps--I suppose I needn't advise you. But I do want to help you. And her. See here, take her out tonight. I know they were living together. There'll be too many memories at her home." He nodded, almost awkwardly. "Pardon me. I have to go now. I'll be seeing you." Kintyre stared after him. _The deuce you say! I didn't think you had a genuine bone in your body._ He glanced at his watch. He was late. His steps lengthened, a hollow noise on the sunset pavement. Past the elaborate south gate, down a few shop-lined blocks of Telegraph Avenue, then left, slightly uphill, along a street of rooming houses and small apartments. Margery's flat was here; or should you say it had been Bruce's? He had gotten his mail, discreetly, at another address (which must now be overrun with sight-seers)--but this was Theirs. Kintyre went upstairs. Margery opened her door at his buzz and closed it again behind him. Bruce had moved in with her during the Christmas holidays, half a year ago now, but the interior was still hers, airily modern. Starting on bluff and nerve and a jerkwater college's art degree, she had made herself important to a local firm of decorators. Bruce would have lived happily in a cave, if it had had book-shelves. And yet somehow, thought Kintyre as he waited for Margery to speak--somehow, she had reshaped the place around him. The piano he played so well stood tuned for him; by now, most of the records were ones which he had shown her--quietly, even unconsciously--were good to have. She had matted and hung one of his inkbrush sketches, a view from Albany Hill toward the Golden Gate, whose contours brought you back for a second look. And, of course, nearly all the books were his, and she had made an offside room into a study for him. When you added it up, maybe only the clothes and the parakeet were altogether her own. _I never affected her like this_, thought Kintyre. _Margery's apartments always felt nervous before. Somehow Bruce made this one peaceful._ "Hello," he said, for she was evidently not going to speak first. "Hi." She went over to a glass-topped coffee table and opened a cigarette box. "Thanks for coming." "No thanks needed," he said. "Could be you'll help me more than I will you." She looked at him for a moment, and he realized it had been a tactless answer with too many unwanted implications. But then she picked up a cigarette and flicked a lighter to it. "Drink?" she asked. "Well--you drink too much, pony."