He stopped, still gazing, his back full on Quincy.
The night seemed, for a moment, hushed. It was as if, before this subtle audience, it wished to show its best. The mists gyred before the battlements of light. And the Park breathed deeply. Quincy wished to get up and leave. Somehow, he failed. And an impression of his discomfort must have struck his anonymous companion. The man turned. Then, he stepped forward.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “you’re only a lad!” He came closer. “Tall, though, for your age.”
Quincy clasped the bench with his two hands. The man stood before him, calmly observant.
“What’s wrong?” he said. His voice was cool but interested. It had in it the poise of a physician who is concerned yet unharassed. Quincy could not speak.
“Have you run away?” the man went on. And then, he began to laugh—quietly, to himself, as if in retrospect upon some joke. “Good for you,” he continued. “Good for you.... Tell me, can’t stand your father?”
“That’s not so!” Quincy choked out, indignant yet ignoring exactly why.
“Oh, I see! Father can’t stand you.”
The boy had craned forward. This stroke thrust him back, almost huddled on his bench. And the man thought he had guessed true.
“I ran away once,” he began, musingly aloof.