Ray walked deep into the Park. He came in sight of a bench near a shelf of rock in a by-path, with a man sitting alone on it. There was room for two, and Ray made for the place.
The man sat leaning forward with his heavy blonde head hanging down as if he might have been drunk. He suddenly lifted himself, and Ray saw that it was Denton. His face was red from the blood that had run into it, but as it grew paler it showed pathetically thin. He stared at Ray confusedly, and did not know him till he spoke.
Then he said, “Oh!” and put out his hand. A sudden kindness in Ray, more than he commonly felt for the man whom he sometimes pitied, but never liked, responded to the overture.
“May I have part of your bench?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Denton. “Sit down,” and he made way for him. “It isn’t mine; it’s one of the few things in this cursed town that belongs to every one.”
“Well,” said Ray, cheerfully, “I suppose we’re all proprietors of the Park, even if we’re not allowed to walk on our own grass.”
“Yes; but don’t get me thinking about that. There’s been too much of that in my life. I want to get away—away from it all. We are going into the country. Do you know about those abandoned farms in New England? Could we go and take up one of them?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. But what could you do with it, if you did? The owners left those farms because they couldn’t live on them. You would have to fight a battle you’re not strong enough for. Better wait till you get fairly on your feet.”
“Yes, I’m sick; I’m no good. But it would be expiation.”
Ray did not speak at once. Then, partly because he thought he might be of use to the man by helping him to an objective vision of what was haunting him, and partly from an æsthetic desire to pry into the confusion of his turbid soul, he asked: “Do you mean for that invention of yours?”