“If anything, I’m feeling sorry for myself. I have to fly back to Port Smith this afternoon; there are things to do before I can leave. My office is on Senapee Street, a block and a half north of Otis and Broadway—”

“That isn’t just up the hill,” she said.

“I know. I started thinking about the climb up and then having to wait for a trolley.”

“Pay for the parking. You won’t get an argument from me.”

She could say what she wanted. He felt disoriented and depressed. He knew the things he had to do in the office, but he was afraid that if he concentrated on them now, one or another might slip away later. He wanted to keep himself occupied. Alone, he would have two more alternatives, letting up completely—daydreaming—or pressing the development of what he had just learned. He understood his habits well enough to realize that he had to wait before trying to go ahead. There was such a thing as absorbing the material—having the material become a tool he could use. When he was going well—in a good emotional groove—the process was automatic. On Monday when he had taken this case he had been going at ninety or ninety-five percent of his capacity. It had been a good day and he had accomplished a lot. After the poor interview with Mrs. MacIver the next day, things had become more difficult. He had made mistakes—like overlooking the conspicuousness of MacIver’s car and letting the racetrack guard know his client. He had made mistakes this afternoon with Betty Kaminsky. It had been her good attitude and need to talk that had provided momentum to the interview.

The car, a Dodge sedan, came up, and while she went about positioning herself behind the wheel, Leland walked around to the other side. When he got in the car, he could not help smiling.

“What is it?” Her arms extended to eleven and one o’clock on the wheel.

“My wife has the same driving style—back straight, neck rigid. She’s a good driver, but you wouldn’t believe it gave her any pleasure.”

“I enjoy driving,” she said.

“So does Karen. She just looks like an air cadet. Are you ready for takeoff?”

She laughed. “You mustn’t annoy the driver.” She moved the car into the traffic, moving the lever to signal a left turn. “There were a few things that I said to you—from me, about you—that I wouldn’t have said if I hadn’t been upset. I don’t really remember exactly what I did say, but I’d like to be able to forget them.”

“It was a trick you played on yourself. It had nothing to do with me.”

She glanced over. “Yes, it did. But I do want to forget it. I mean that.”