Nathan touched my arm. “A trance?” he asked me. “Isn’t it revolting the way I let her lie to me? I should have told her never to come back again or else I should have beaten her to death. And that book! Do you see what it is? A Japanese novel translated into German. Can you tie that for a pure waste of time?”

But for me, it was not a pure waste of time. His words were but a slightly altered version of what Mr. Whitney had said as we stood last night in Miss Pride’s library and he had taken down a book from the shelves. I did not remember having looked at it at all. I was weak with relief that I had seen another copy like Nathan’s, and I began to laugh. It was a deep, interior, physical laughter, as beyond my control as hiccoughs, the kind that afflicts children in grammar school who bend their little shaking bodies forward and hide their heads in their folded arms and want to stop but cannot even when the teacher reprimands them.

“But it’s not funny!” cried Nathan.

I could only splutter a reply, and after a time when I was quiet, I explained to him that I had not been amused by anything, that I was only nervous, probably from all our drinking the night before and the dressing-down I had got from Miss Pride. He looked down at me contemptuously. “Nervous, is it? You’re more fashionable even than I thought. I suppose you are being psycho-analyzed.”

“Certainly not,” I rejoined with some annoyance. “You want to know too much.”

“I assure you that I have not the slightest interest in knowing why you laughed. If you are a giggler, more’s the pity. It is particularly offensive when it comes late in life.”

I wrapped my muffler about my neck, resolving not to come back again. Although a little earlier I had wished to explain why I had not drunk beer with him at Red’s, I now wished only to expunge him and the memory of him from my mind. But, as often in the past, he disarmed me. He sat at his desk, his birthmark hidden by his hand and regarded me with a piteous entreaty. “Did you really mean it when you said you would go to the movies with her?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably not. It seems very unimportant.”

“You could help me if you only would. If you could convince me that she’s a bitch, possibly I could eventually break off.”

“I’m not interested, and now I’ve got to go home.”

“I’ll be lonely if you go. Will you come back again next Sunday?”

“No,” I told him. “You’re too rude.”