“Maybe I can tell you, George. Do you mind if I do?”
He minded all right; he minded terribly. But how could he say so? He didn’t say anything, because he couldn’t say yes, either.
They were beside the park now, the little neighborhood park that was only a block square and didn’t offer much in the way of privacy, but which did have benches. And he steered her—or she steered him; he didn’t know which—into the park and they sat down on a bench. There were other people in the park, but not too near till he hadn’t answered her question.
She sat very close to him on the bench. She said, “You’ve been worried about your mind, haven’t you George?”
“Well—yes, in a way, yes, I have.”
“And you’re going away has something to do with that, hasn’t it? You’re going somewhere for observation or treatment, or both?”
“Something like that. It’s not as simple as that, Clare, and I—I just can’t tell you about it.”
She put her hand on his hand, lying on his knee. She said, “I knew it was something like that, George. And I don’t ask you to tell me anything about it.
“Just—just don’t say what you meant to say. Say so-long instead of good-bye. Don’t even write me, if you don’t want to. But don’t he noble and call everything off here and now, for my sake. At least wait until you’ve been wherever you’re going. Will you?”
He gulped. She made it sound so simple when actually it was so complicated. Miserably he said, “All right, Clare. If you want it that way.”