That was as much as I ever heard her say about him. I don't think she would have said even that but for an unwillingness to drive too abruptly to the main object of her visit, which was to ask me questions about Terry. And the first question, when at last she came to it, was: "What's happened in his past life to make him like—like this?"
"Like what?"
She paused for a short while and then said: "It's as if he's had one blow after another until he doesn't care any more about anything—that's my impression. He does what I ask him to do, but still he doesn't care."
"And you want him to care?"
"Of course I do. And you can help me—you've known him for years. Tell me what's happened to him. What's been the real cause of his breakdown?"
I gave her as carefully as I could a summary of all that I could possibly tell her. I stressed the hard work that he had been doing, and Karelsky's shabby treatment of him, and the shock of hearing about her father's accident. And when I had got to the end, she said quietly: "Is that all?"
"I think it is."
"Won't you tell me the rest?"
"The rest? I don't know that there is any rest."
"All the same, I have an idea there is." She stared at me unflinchingly, and then added: "Never mind—if you won't tell me, then you won't. Let's talk of something else."