“A lot you know about it,” he said irritably, glancing over at the portrait of John Phillips on the wall, as if he half expected the old boy to speak out. John Phillips had founded a preparatory school for boys which was now a household word. He was still headmaster when Damon and his brother went to the school and had always preferred Waldo, Damon’s brother. But for some reason Damon adored him and, whenever he had something to drink, told stories about the old man, never would listen to a word against him, loved to quote the famous sayings: “A boy is born with personality; he is taught character.” “To hell with the intellectuals: give me the whole man.”

“Don’t tell me he was a whole man,” Julia said, remembering this saying. “For he wasn’t.”

“You know,” Damon went on on his own track, “Edward has something of that quality. The old man would have liked Edward, oh, disagreed with him of course, but I can almost hear him saying, ‘Edward Cavan has moral stature. He’s all wrong of course, but he’ll stand up and be counted,’” and Damon laughed again, then stopped laughing abruptly. “I feel absolutely gone, Julia.” He was slumped down in his chair, and looked quite ill.

“You need your supper. I’ll go and gather things together——”

“No, let’s talk. It’s not late.” For just a second Julia felt like a prisoner. They would have to go over and over the same problems now, until Damon had talked himself out of his depression. Her job was to listen and to say appropriate things. She felt mean to think in this way and, because she felt mean, was determined to be kind. She settled back, tucking her feet up under her, her chin in her hand.

“It’s not only Edward. I’ve come to a blank wall in my work, six months or more on a completely false trail—the joke’s on me all right.”

Damon’s saving grace was this, this lightness about what mattered most to him, this humility and persistence which had to do with being a scientist, she supposed, but always it moved her. He’s a great man, she thought, and most of the time I misjudge him because I have a mean little nature. What was Damon like in that mysterious paradise of his where he sat poring over equations which she could not even read, let alone solve? Was he quiet then? At peace with himself? Centered? She would never know. They had been married twenty-five years and still she would never know.

“Well, darling,” she said warmly, “at least you know that now.”

“Yes,” he sighed, “but it’s a bore having wasted all that time.”

“I should think it would be restful in a way, because you can get an absolute answer at least——”