“Thanks, Ted.” They shake hands, but not theatrically. “Oh well--oh hell--oh dammit, you know how blasted sorry I am. That's all I can say, I guess--” “Well, so am I. And it was my fault, chiefly. And that's all I can say.” “Look here, though.” Ted's voice is doing its best to be logical in spite of the fact that two things, the fact that he is unutterably sorry for Oliver and the fact that he mustn't show it in silly ways, are fighting in him like wrestlers. “Are you sure it's as bad as all that? I mean girls---” Ted flounders hopelessly between his eagerness to help and his knowledge that it will take ungodly tact. “I mean, Nancy's different all right--but they change their minds--and they come around--and--” Oliver spreads out his hands. It is somehow queerly comforting not to let himself be comforted in any degree. “What's the use? Tried to explain--got her mother--Nancy was out but she certainly left a message--easier if we never saw each other again--well--Then she sent back everything--she knew I'd tried to phone her--tried to explain--never a word since then except my name and address on the package--oh it's over, Ted. Feenee. But it's pretty well smashed me. For the present, at least.” “But if you started it,” Ted says stubbornly. “Oh I did, of course--gentlemanly supposition anyhow--that's why--don't you see?” “Can't say I do exactly.” “Well?” “Well?” “We're both of us too proud, Ted. And too poor. And starting again--can't you--visualize--it wouldn't be the way it was--only both of us thinking about _that_ all the time--and _still_ we couldn't get married. I've got less right than ever, now--oh, but how _could_ we after what we've said--” and this time his voice has lost all the attitudes of youth, it is singularly older and seems to come from the center of a place full of pain. “I wish I could help, though, Ollie. You know,” says Ted. “Wish you could.” Then later, “Thanks.” “Welcome.” Both smoke and are silent for a time, remembering small things out of the last eight years. “But what are you going to do, Ollie, now you've kissed the great god Advertising a fond good-by?” Ollie stirs uneasily. “Dunno--exactly. I told you about those two short stories Easten wanted me to take out of my novel? Well, I've done it and sent 'em in--and he'll buy 'em all right.” “That's fine!” “It's a little money, anyhow. And then--remember Dick Lamoureux?” “Yes.” “Got a letter from him right after--I came back from St. Louis. Well, he's got a big job with the American Express in Paris--European Advertising Manager or something like that--he's been crazy to have either of us come over ever since that idea of the three of us getting an apartment on the _Rive Gauche_ fell through. Well, he says, if I can come over, he'll get me some sort of a job--not much to go on at first but they want people who are willing to stay--enough to live on anyway--I want to get out of the country, Ted.”