In the street I had to lean against the wall of an office building for a time, for there was no strength in my legs. A policeman came from the centre of the street.
"What's the matter, young fellow? Sick?"
"Just a momentary faintness," I answered. "I'm all right, really."
"Well, go in there and get yourself a drink."
I saw him pointing with his club at a nearby café. I got there somehow and sat down at a little table.
"What's yours, bud?" the bartender called with a great assumption of joviality.
"A glass of sherry," I gasped. He brought it and set it before me. I saw him preparing for a pleasant chat.
"I'm very sorry," I said, "but would you mind not talking to me? I—I've got some business to think out."
"Oh, have it your own way," he replied, deeply offended, and returned behind his bar.
There was just one problem in my mind. What was I to say to Helen? Should I tell her the truth? Ought I to tell her? Three months, or less, the doctor had said. Could I make her happy for those three months? Was that not better than telling her? But would she guess? Could I keep it from her? Should I be able to play my part? Back and forth these questions raced in my mind. No answer came, for either choice seemed wrong. Helen and I did not lie to each other. But this was a different kind of lie from any mere vulgar deception. Had she the right to know?