“This . . . Gareth . . . ,” Vance tried to control his own reluctance, if not ill humor, “is as you may know a sort of invalid, and needs somebody to take care of him. . . . The other caretakers never stayed more than a few weeks. . . . And Sid, to tell you the truth, I was afraid you might feel it was beneath you. . . .”

Sidney sat down in his chair again, and touched his coffee cup. “Beneath me?” he repeated, seeking for any sarcasm which might lie under this remark; but Vance was incapable, he decided, of sarcasm.

“An invalid now, huh?” Sidney’s eyes got that dreamy look they so often had. “In times past all Gareth ever liked to do was ride horses. . . . I remember his Dad told me once that young as he was he was capable of breaking in a horse, and as a matter of fact later I found out he had done so—broke several horses, in fact. . . . His dream was to be in a rodeo, or who knows, a circus . . .”

“But it was by breaking in a horse, I believe, Sid, that he got injured. At least riding this new horse, which threw him and kicked him also . . . You see Gareth was not injured in the train wreck. Only some little scratches, whilst his Dad and his two younger brothers were killed.”

“You know Gareth was part of the gang of boys that clustered round the renderer,” Sidney mused.

“Maybe we best drop the idea then, Sid. After all there’s plenty of time.”

“No, Vance, there ain’t, as a matter of fact. There’s not much time at all where I’m concerned. I’ll take the job if she will give it to me.”

“Oh I don’t think there’s any question she’ll offer it to you. She’s desperate . . . Excuse me, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. . . .”

“I’ll go.”

“But, Sid, do you really want to. I can’t stand the thought of you emptying chamber pots and paring the toenails of some non-­compos-­mentis boy . . .”

“But I know Gareth . . .”

This time Vance blushed for he wanted to but did not dare ask more.

“You see, Vance, I can’t just sit around here and live off you. . . . I tell you I’ll take it.” He stood up, and he smiled, and going over to Vance he punched him with his fist in the belly, and smiled broadly.

Mrs. Vaisey had offered to send her chauffeur over to fetch Sidney, but he insisted on walking the six or seven miles.

He was a bit winded by the time he had arrived, nonetheless. His opportunity for exercise in prison had been minimal, and all he had had for keeping in shape were a dilapidated punching bag and some weights. As a result of being confined or (who knows?) because of—as the prison psychiatrist put it—the weight of memory, his heart troubled him to some extent.