"Of course you are," she said. "Some women like shy men. Perhaps sixty percent of them do, when the shyness has something very genuine behind it. Shyness has nothing to do with courage--or lack of it. It's often a blending of humility and strength. And humility is a very fine quality." "That's the charitable way of looking at it, I guess," he said. "But I'm a great deal harder on myself at times. I started off shy--was that way when I was five--but I could have conquered it if I'd tried hard enough." The boyish grin was back on his face again. "Sometimes I feel that way, and then again--I don't at all. I ask myself if it isn't a mistake to try to change people too much. There has to be a wide variety of human behavior, doesn't there? That's what makes the world go round. I've always liked something that André Gide once said: 'We are what we are, and we do what we do.' But perhaps you don't agree." "One doesn't have to be fatalist to agree with that," she said. His face sobered suddenly. "You should be burned up," he said. "Angry enough to give me a cold stare and refuse to talk to me. About the only thing I can say in my own defense is--I had no idea I'd seriously scared you. I guess that's because no woman has ever before mistaken me for a wolf on the prowl." "I knew you were walking right behind me and I was afraid to look back," she said. "It was downright silly of me--a surrender to panic that doesn't make sense. I've only myself to blame." "But why?" he asked, puzzled. "If you'd turned I'd have spoken to you, and introduced myself. I'd have explained that I just wanted to show you a few of my drawings, and if you had the evening free...." There was a slight curve to his lips again. "I'd have probably gone all the way out on a limb, and asked you to have dinner with me. I was building up to it, just giving myself a second or two more of grace. But then you became frightened and almost broke into a run--" Should she tell him why, she asked herself? Exactly why she'd been afraid to turn and face his gaze? She decided not to. He'd be sure to think her silence strange, very strange, when he saw tomorrow morning's headlines; but to talk about it now, to watch shock and horror grow in his eyes, was a little more than she could take. Better to let him think that Lathrup was still alive, that she, Lynn, had emerged into the street from a perfectly normal, smoothly functioning magazine office. Better, safer, wiser to let him suspect nothing. If she ever saw him again--and she had a feeling she would--she could explain why she hadn't come right out and told him about the tragedy. She could count on his complete sympathy and understanding. She was sure of that.