"I found out yesterday why she acts and talks so strangely. She told me. I couldn't sleep last night, and I've decided I must leave Allertown. Somewhere there may be people who can help me, but I can't find the help I need here." "Was it so terrible?" I asked, trying to calm him. "What did she tell you, Wyn?" He leaned forward intensely, pointing a finger at me, and opened his mouth to speak. Then he shut it and sat back. He shook his head. "No," he said. "Maybe it wouldn't affect you as it has me, but you couldn't feel comfortable about it. All I want from you, Don, is the promise that you'll take care of Summer and little Mark for me until I come back." "You know I'll do that. They can move in here right away. But I think you're making a mistake, running away from whatever it is." "I'm not running away," he replied. "I told you, I've got to have help." That's all he would say. He left on the mid-afternoon train for Mayer City, and I went around to 138 March Street to help move his wife and child into my own home. I didn't recall until three days later that Summer had predicted--or so Wyn had said--that when she told him why she acted as she did, he would leave her. * * * * * If I can't excuse Wyn for leaving his wife and child, I have even less excuse for becoming his wife's lover. The fact that the interlude may have been necessary to his very existence--and hers--is no justification, for I did not know that then. Nor do I know it certainly now. But picture the plight of a man who has in his home a young and beautiful woman, the realization growing on him, day by day, that he has loved her for six years. And it was Summer's fault, as much as my own. Perhaps more. Despite Wyn's words, I could not be sure that he would return to her, and certainly she must have known that he would. Despite this, she did more than merely encourage me. I have wondered often about the philosophical implications of this fact. If Summer had not encouraged me, I wouldn't have been bold enough to make any advances on my own account ... and where would that have left Summer? On the other hand, it was the most natural thing in the world that Summer should encourage me. She knew. Wyn had been away only about two months when Summer, rousing herself from a deeply pensive mood one night, sat down by my side on the sofa and snuggled up close to me. I couldn't bring myself to pull away from her, but I exclaimed: "Summer, this isn't right. What about Wyn?" "I don't understand this coolness toward me, Don," she said, laying her head on my shoulder. "People who love each other shouldn't act so aloof." I was thunderstruck at this admission. But I couldn't help saying what I said then. "I do love you, Summer," I confessed, almost choking. At once she arose and left me. I thought I had offended her, and I was almost relieved that I had. It was best that she should be discouraged about any ideas she might have about me.