“You better take it,” Ken said, moving towards the hearth. “I don’t want it.”
“Keep it. You never know. So long now. I’ll let myself out.” Ken picked up the card, Parker crossed the hall, opened the front door and went off down the path.
Ken glanced at the telephone number written on the card. Riverside 33344. He hesitated for a moment, then tore the card in half and dropped it into his trash basket.
He picked up his coat and went along the passage to the bedroom. He stood in the doorway, looking into the big, airy room. It looked horribly neat and unlived-in and forsaken. He tossed his coat on the bed and began to strip off his clothes. He felt hot and sticky. Through the curtained window he could see the evening sun blazing down on the thick grass of the lawn.
Too early to start pushing a mower yet, he told himself, and went into the bathroom and took a shower.
He felt better when he had put on an open-necked shirt and a pair of old slacks. He wandered into the lounge and stood looking around.
The time was twenty minutes past six: a long time before he went to bed, and already he felt lonely.
He crossed to the table and splashed whisky into his glass, carried the glass to an armchair near the radio and sat down, He turned on the radio, lit a cigarette and stared emptily at the opposite wall.
So Parker had found himself a girl. That surprised Ken. He had always regarded Parker as a man who talked a lot and did nothing.
As some speaker began a lecture on the horrors of the H-bomb, Ken impatiently snapped off the radio. He got up and walked over to the window to stare out at the garden. He had no inclination to cut the lawn or go out and weed the rose bed, which was in need of attention.