The headlines were filing in procession again through Fanshaw's mind: Drink and infatuation for a woman lead minister's son to his death... Following the will-of-the-wisp of pleasure through the tortuous mazes of Boston's tenderloin shatters young graduate's career.... Lovely Back Bay girl Conservatoire student figures in East Cambridge bridge suicide. Mystery of missing revolver ... "O, if I could get it out of my head and forget it." "How's your mother, Fanshaw?" "I really don't know, Nan ... No better and no worse." The bell rang. Nan raised herself slowly from the chair and went to the door. "Why, Betty Thomas!" Fanshaw heard her exclaim. In spite of himself, Fanshaw had unrolled the newspaper. It was a heavily ornamented magazine page with a picture in the upper left-hand corner of a young man in a dress suit brandishing a revolver in the middle of a spotchy snowstorm. See next Sunday's Magazine Section for What Drove David Wendell, Goodlooking, Successful, Beloved by Parents and Friends, to blow out his brains that night of wind and blizzard on the East Cambridge Bridge. "Put that paper away," said Betty Thomas in her fresh, ringing voice. She wore a grey skirt and a burnt-orange sweater that moulded to the ample curves of her bosom. "I'm going to make Nancibel play some Bach or something with me... You people are getting morbid sitting around with these dirty yellow sheets all day." "You're right, Betty," said Nan. "Will you have some tea?" Betty Thomas shook her head, smiling. "D'you mind if I open the window, though? The air's splendid outside, cold and smells of spring." Nan had brought out her violin. "Let's play ... I haven't practiced for three days." Fanshaw sat by the window shivering a little in the cold air. The sound of the violin being tuned rasped on his ears. Then they started playing a solemn, circular tune that made him think of a minuet, and today made him twitch all over with impatience. He got to his feet and tiptoed out. Something about the two girls' absorption in the music annoyed him. He walked down the stairs and strolled across the Fenway where a few nursemaids were wheeling babies about in the late afternoon sun. He crossed a bridge over a railroad track. The sound of a train whistle in the distance sent a pang through him of helpless nostalgia for travel and railway carriages and the smoke of stations and the unfamiliar smell of hotel rooms. He got so little of all he had longed for before he died, Fanshaw was thinking; and what I long for, how little of it shall I get! He felt tears welling up within him.