They walked along. Basine felt his exhuberance leaving him. A curious desire to apologize to Keegan took hold of him. But for what? Because Keegan looked shabby. Keegan acted frightened and ashamed of something.
"We used to have some good times together, George."
The man was impossibly wistful. Like a beggar asking something—demanding something.
"Yes," said Basine. This Keegan ... this Keegan. He looked at him out of the corners of his eyes. Shabby, furtive, blond-faced, tired.
"What have you been doing, Hugh?" he asked.
"Oh, didn't you hear," Keegan answered. His voice grew more deferential. He began to talk in an apologetic murmur.
"My wife died," he apologized. "I got married, you know, four years ago. Four years this coming November. We went to a picnic last June and Helen ate something."
Keegan's voice sank to a confidential and still apologetic whisper.
"About two nights after," he added, "she died."
Basine looked at him and saw tears in his eyes. Keegan had married somebody and she had died. This had happened to Keegan. Basine grew nervous.