“I'll tell you what you need, child—just the thing! We'll run down to one of the beaches and tramp. Pick up lunch anywhere. What do you say?”
“I'll do it, Peter. Call for me, will you?... And oh, Peter, here's an odd thing! Betty packed up yesterday while I was out and went home. Just left a note. She has run away—given up. Going to marry a man in her town. He makes gas engines.”
Peter started the coffee machine, smiling as he worked. A sense of deep utter calm was flowing into his harassed spirit, pervading it.
He went into the bedroom and gazed with tolerant concern at the downcast Hy.
“The trouble with you, my boy,” he began, then paused.
“What's the trouble with me?” growled Hy.
“The trouble with you, my boy, is that you don't understand women.”