“My case”--David went on--“I am so different. I always lived with my mother and then she died. And then my uncle took me--took me really in charge. That is why I came. I have never done anything because I wanted to, really--that I can remember. Except perhaps work in the bicycle shop. Mother wanted me to stay longer at school. But--” he looked at his hands again and stopped, then met Cornelia squarely with a smile, “the truth is mother said to me: ‘Do as you please, son.’ And--and I was bored by school. My best friend, Jay Leamy--he worked at Mr. Devitt’s also.” “You never told me that,” said Tom. “He didn’t stay my best friend. I guess that’s why. I guess I was a better friend than he.” “What makes you say that?” asked Cornelia. “Well--it was natural. He was ten years older than I. He got married. He got a better job at the Arms factory just outside Town. We didn’t see each other so much after that. He sort of lost interest.” Cornelia laughed. “I think that’s a little hard!” She did not want this word. She was sure “hard” was an ultimate wrong word for David Markand. She was vague in her misgiving. “Probably, his wife and--he had children? Well, they must have left him far less time.” “It is not a question of time, is friendship?” David asked. “Well, left him far less----” Why did Cornelia find this difficult? “Less _emotion_ perhaps. I can understand that. With a wife and children.” “It would not have made any difference with me,” said David simply. Tom was leaning over. “Perhaps you don’t know what it means to have a wife and children.” “I know what it ought to mean to have a friend.” “Are you sure?” said Tom. “After we had shared so many thoughts, don’t you see?” “You must be capable of deep friendship,” Cornelia thought aloud. Tom was somehow crossed by her remark. He lay back once more, brooding. The talk was easy now between the other two. So easy that even silence did not disquiet them. Tom seemed far away. Out of a silence, David asked: “Is that sort of friendship rare?” Cornelia, not knowing, did not answer. “If it is rare,” said Tom, “there must be something wrong with it.” “What do you mean?” “The good things in the world are common. Sunlight: moonlight.” “Mother and I were that sort of friends,” said David. “I hope Tom and I are also,” laughed Cornelia. David looked at her close. She was a woman who made beautiful things. That was her life. It seemed to David she was not so very different from many women he had known who were nothing but mothers. She was not pretty. It never occurred to David that she could be less than beautiful. So he accepted her. A vague questioning flew through his mind like a scarf of cloud: Were things in the world that had different names so different after all? Artists and mothers, friends and mothers, sunlight and mothers.... The questioning faded. It was good in this room.