He went on going to see Helen. He took his trunk and his books and his violin and moved them into an ample furnished room on the West Side. He was to have a bathroom of his own. He would be comfortably fitted out. On the last day, he held out his hand. He said: “My trunk will be called for to-day, Tom. I have taken a room.” He gave Tom the address which he had written on a piece of paper. Tom took it between his thumb and finger. “Thank you, David.” He had not looked at it. Mrs. Lario came in, behind a large tray that held their breakfast. Quickly she set the table. She laid a newspaper, longitudinally folded, beside each plate. She left. Tom and David sat down to their last breakfast. Usually, they read their papers. It helped to stem the arid draught of their silence. Now, they placed their papers unread away. Tom looked at David. He made no effort to speak. His temple was pulsing. David was trying to eat. He looked at his food. He leaned back in his chair, and also his thoughts seemed to incline away. He said to himself: “I must be natural. What am I doing?” He found that he could not eat his breakfast. He had a swallow of water, a spoonful of oatmeal. He could taste what he had eaten. It seemed to be still in his mouth. He raised his head and looked at Tom. For an instant they saw each other. A terror came upon David, a great pain. He could not bear this. Was this not his friend whom he was leaving? For whatever reason, to whatever end, this was Tom, and he loved him, and he was cutting an artery that throbbed with blood. He could not linger. He felt himself being swept toward a sort of precipice. He was afraid. It was as if he held in his hands some precious life, and he and it were being entranced toward the brink. Every vein in his head beat hard against his going: cried for his moving. He got up. He was trembling. Tom smiled no longer. There was a passion in his eyes, as if this getting up of David were some fatal execution he had awaited and steeled himself to meet. His face was bloodless. “Good-by, Tom,” David put out his hand. Tom took it. He held it limply. Then he pressed it hard. “Good-by, Boy,” he said.... Helen Daindrie had a friend, “my young friend” she called her with just a touch of condescension, a girl who had studied the violin abroad with the greatest masters and who was once more in New York. She was to make her official bow in the Fall. Helen Daindrie asked a few of her friends to come and hear her. “I have invited Cornelia,” she said to David. “Will you call for her and bring her?” David had not seen Cornelia more than twice in the past three months. He had not seen her once of his own initiative. When she asked him to come, he obeyed. He always would. Despite himself, he had the feeling for her that a young man might have for a maiden aunt: he was deeply, even ideally fond of her, but she seemed to live in another world, there was no way of contact nor of expression for his fondness.