“I can’t remember our house when there wasn’t talk about cops,” he said. “I’m as familiar with the precinct houses in this town as any civilian, save a few old buffs.” They were in a cafeteria across the street from the department store where she worked on Saturdays. He had asked her where she wanted to have dinner and she had said a place where she could kick off her shoes and maybe put her feet up on a chair.

“It’s not a question of any one thing or some nasty subconscious motive,” he said. “For me, being a cop is synonymous with what’s good and useful—at least, within my reach.”

“Okay.”

“Fully satisfied?”

“Yes.” He had frightened her. She had asked about his politics and he had assured her that he was not a Fascist. She was certain that there was going to be another war. Although she had no time for the political clubs on campus, they had her sympathy. They weren’t going to stop the war, of course. She did not know how it would interfere with her own life. She wanted to do something important—what, she did not know. She enjoyed work; she was most happy when she had more than she could do. So far, since she had been on her own, she had done well. Her friends said that she was going to have success.

She did not know who her parents were. There were reasons why children were passed over in adoption centers. She could have been a sickly baby or she could have been adopted and then taken back because the parents had been unfit. When a child reached the age of three or four the market for her disappeared. The records were kept secret, but she had no interest in that time of her life. She had been in three foster homes and had been treated well. She was in touch with the families, but that was all. She did not think about it much. All her life she had had her own room—the state required it in foster homes—and her habits and attitudes probably were her own. The past two years had helped her find herself. She really did not know how she was going to spend the rest of her life. She hoped that it would go well. She hoped it very much.

“Are we going to see each other again?”

“I’ll call you next week.”

“That’s sort of diffident,” she said.

“I will call, Karen.”

“Do you always say what you mean?”

“Relax,” he said. “Forget what you’ve told me. I’ve put it away. You do the same.”

“I’m saying other things, too,” she said.

“I know. I like you. I can’t say more.”

“I see. Yes, all right.”