"Wally!"
"Hullo?"
"You—you oughtn't to be so good to me!"
"Nonsense! Where's the harm in lending a hand—or, rather, an arm—to a pal in trouble?"
"You know what I mean. I can't ... that is to say ... it isn't as though ... I mean...."
Wally smiled a tired, friendly smile.
"If you're trying to say what I think you're trying to say, don't! We had all that out two weeks ago. I quite understand the position. You mustn't worry yourself about it." He took her arm, and they crossed the boardwalk. "Are we going in the right direction? You lead the way. I know exactly how you feel. We're old friends, and nothing more. But, as an old friend, I claim the right to behave like an old friend. If an old friend can't behave like an old friend, how can an old friend behave? And now we'll rule the whole topic out of the conversation. But perhaps you're too tired for conversation?"
"Oh, no."
"Then I will tell you about the sad death of young Mr. Pilkington."
"What!"