“The right of a friend, her friend and yours. You're frightening the poor girl to death. She is beginning to be afraid you don't care for her.”
“I? I don't care for HER? I don't—Oh, my God!”
To my utter amazement he began to laugh. And then, all at once, his laughter ceased, he swayed, choked, and, suddenly collapsing in the chair, dropped his head upon his arms on the table and sobbed, sobs that shook him from head to heel.
For one strong, healthy, normal man to see another cry is a disconcerting and uncomfortable experience. Masculine tears do not flow easily and poor George, on the verge of hysterics, was a pitiful and distressing spectacle. I was almost as completely disorganized as he. I felt ashamed for him and ashamed of myself for having seen him in such a condition. I wanted desperately to help him and I did not know what to do, so beyond patting him on the back and begging him repeatedly to brace up and not behave like that, I did nothing. At last his sobs ceased and he was silent. I had risen from my chair and now I stood there with a hand on his shoulder; the ticking of the ancient eight-sided clock on the wall sounded loud in the room.
Suddenly he sat up and threw off my hand.
“Well,” he said, bitterly, “I'm a fine specimen of a man, ain't I. Ain't you proud of me?”
“I am mighty sorry for you,” I answered. “And I mean to help you.”
“You can't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I do know, Ros,” he turned and looked me straight in the eye. “I am going to give you some good advice. Take it, for your own sake. Clear out of here and leave me. Don't have anything more to do with me. Clear out.”