I’ve failed him, George thought miserably. I had the chance and I couldn’t say the right thing. Cavan paid for the coffee and then left him on the curb with a curt, “Good luck on the book.” George watched him run between the cars and disappear into the subway station.

What was it all about anyway? At first it seemed as if at last he was going to have a chance to talk to Cavan easily, like another human being. But somewhere along the way, something had happened. He as a person had ceased to exist. He had been given a riddle to guess, that was it, and because he didn’t know the answer, couldn’t participate, he had ceased to exist. “I am troubled,” Cavan had said, and “You have to fight.” But what did you have to fight and how? George stood there on the curb in the middle of Harvard Square, filled with silent longing, the longing to know all those things he didn’t know, the Spanish War and whatever that meant to people like Edward Cavan, the longing to be as rich and complex, as eaten up by life as the man with whom he had just failed to communicate at all. Was the thinking man of his vision, the man who represented the University really in danger? Was Cavan in danger himself? What did all the books mean if you couldn’t answer these questions, couldn’t meet another human being on his own terms—failed out of hopeless ignorance and indifference? Could politics matter that much?

II

II

Every month on the day of the Civil Liberties Union meeting Grace Kimlock stopped to pick up Edward Cavan on her way in from Cambridge to The Hill. She got off at Charles Street and enjoyed the walk across to Chestnut where Edward lived. She allowed plenty of time to stop and peer in at the antique shops and especially at a spectacular florist’s where new great pots of deep ochre, orange, and dark red chrysanthemums were set out on the sidewalk between orange trees. All this was a rite, filled with anticipation, for she looked forward even more to seeing Edward, to the further steep climb up the hill with him, as if this monthly custom had become a sign, precious to her, of their intimacy.

On this particular October afternoon, Grace Kimlock rang his bell several times, but there was no answering buzz. She began to wonder if Edward had started off without her; no, that was unthinkable. But he did seem absent-minded these days. Could he have forgotten all about it? Decided not to come? She felt suddenly agitated, standing there on the steps, exposed to the curious glances of the passers-by. The erratic pumping of her heart bothered her and she rapped sharply with the man’s umbrella she carried, as if to make it stop.