I wondered how he'd put it.
"Marcia—" he began, and described her. We were made to see a woman somewhere between Elaine-the-Fair and Florence Nightingale. "I was just about licked when we met! I'm a physicist—work on atomic energy. She made me live—filled me with new feelings—taught me what love could mean to a man like me. Then—we scrapped. Over nearly nothing!" His eyes moved reproachfully to me—then back, confidingly, to the girl. She was listening, nodding with understanding, frowning with sympathy, and keeping her red lips parted the whole time. "We scrapped. She decided we weren't suited to each other. So she left me. That was—yesterday. I'd give everything I own to get her back! Everything I own—and am!"
"What exactly did you fight about?" Yvonne asked.
Paul's expression became vague. "Never mind. It wasn't important."
"Are you sure?"
He gave both of us a dark, defiant stare. "Yes."
"Then," Yvonne said, "I'm right. You mustn't continue this search operation. You should wait. And entertain yourself. Let her do the coming back—since she ran away."
It was the first hope he had felt. "I wish I could believe it would work."
"Take my word for it. I'm a woman."
"And how," he asked scornfully, "do I start this gay, forgetful act?"