he discovered what his son had become. In a way (although he refused to let himself really consciously think this way), to let himself become violently upset again at the memory of that night on this, the first "anniversary" of that night, was to admit that he had not completely severed all relations with his son. He had disowned him, yes, but he could not erase him. How long would it take before the acid-etched image that appeared before him whenever he thought of John would fade and eventually disappear? If only he had not opened the door. But he had opened it. It was not his fault that he saw what he did. It was John's fault. How could he? How dared he? He became aware that Helen was still talking to, or rather at, him.

"You seem so anxious to get back to your paper, Frank," she said acridly. She knew that he had not been listening to her and wondered what he had been thinking. We'll talk about it some other time." Frank nodded and picked up his paper, more firmly now. He was in control of himself now and his firm grasp on the solid mass of the paper helped somewhat to calm him almost to the same level at which he had been when first he picked up his paper earlier that evening.

Helen rose and went into the kitchen. She returned with the main courses and a fresh glass for Frank, She made no move to clean up the broken glass. Frank blushed slightly and rustled his paper a bit as she set the new glass before him and filled it.

Dinner proceeded without further incident, neither wishing to revive the argument, until coffee. Frank finished his inattentive perusal of the paper and lit a cigarette. He glanced at Helen. She was still reading the book, slowly turning the pages as her eyes rapidly moved across the lines. As the smoke from his cigarette reached her, she looked up at him, raising one eyebrow as she did so as if to say, "Well?"

Frank was somewhat flustered. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear," he said, “would you like a cigarette?" Would she like a cigarette. Of course she would like a cigarette. She always had a cigarette with her coffee.

"Yes, thank you, " she said, in a tone which indicated that he knew perfectly well that she wanted a cigarette, as she extracted one from the pack which he extended to her. He reached over the table and raised one of the candles to her cigarette. She inhaled and then blew a long steady stream of smoke directly at him.

"Thank you," she said and returned to her book. As the smoke enveloped his head, Frank coughed slightly and began rubbing his eyes. Helen looked up. Oh, I am sorry, dear," she said.

"Nothing, nothing at all,"

'Now we're even,' he thought.

"What are you reading?" he asked in an attempt to mollify her by making her feel that he was interested but also to satisfy his curiosity.

"Oh, just a novel," she said in a tone which indicated that the book was a mere trifle and nothing that need concern him.

"Oh," he said, noncommittally. He rose from the table and began to col-

lect the dishes. Helen closed her book and got up.

"Don't bother with those, dear, I don't think you should exert yourself any more tonight. Why don't you go into the living room and listed to the radio? I can easily wash these. There aren't very many."

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