“A man can get to a bank the way he can to an idea—or a woman. Or a religion, even. Then, if something crosses up his bank, he thinks whatever crossed it up is criminal, depraved, and illegal.”
Jimmie sighed. “I wish he’d loosened up more, then! He never showed me any sentimental side. I heard he had one—from Biff—once. But I never saw it.”
“You just said you weren’t interested.”
Jimmie grinned sadly. “That’s right. I did.”
There was another stillness. A man in a distant corner rattled a newspaper.
Billiard balls clicked in the next room. Jimmie looked with curiosity at the big, gaunt man. Mr. Corinth had said, once, that he ought to meet Mr. Wilson. But the picture of her father Audrey had painted was one of absolutist bigotry. Nothing like this. The man in the opposite chair seemed mellow; he was striking a chord in Jimmie’s nature that Jimmie would not have believed him able to comprehend.
Mr. Wilson reacted to the silent appraisal. “Don’t know exactly why I came over this way. I admire a tough adversary. Maybe I was trying to soften you up.”
“You did. Quite a lot.”
The older man mused. “You’re smart, too, Jimmie. You know, I almost wish—sometimes—that I were young again. Free of all my standard opinions. Free of belief.
Free of responsibility.” He laughed at himself. “Damn it, I’d probably be in the RAF—or some other crazy thing!”