"Would a friend have done as well?"
She didn't answer for so long that I leaned out again. She was swinging the cord of the window blind. The last debilitated glow in the sky made her look like a flower at twilight—like a single tinted object in a black-and-white photograph of a room. She caught sight of me.
"Maybe even better," she said falteringly. "What sort of person am I!"
"The sort that a person is, when a person begins finding out what sort."
"But not the final discovery?" The turn and set of her head was eager. I couldn't see her eyes.
"Who is?"
"You mean—you think everybody—?"
"Yes," I said, swirling the water around. "Everybody. Most—when they're young. Most grow out of it. Some—hardly notice it. Some have a minor case of it all their lives. To others—it's an intermittent hint—a leftover that crops up as a suggestion, not a fact. Lots—are carried off stage for good by it. The great majority insist they have no such feelings—never could and never did and never will. The result of that—"
"Is what?"
"Look out the window and see the crummy mess yourself, honey! If you'll toss me my dressing gown—from the closet—"