"Why, Helen. Why are you all dressed up?" he asked.

"I forgot to tell you, dear, I'm riding into town with you this morning. I have some shopping to do."

"Oh. Well, that's fine." He wanted to ask her if she were planning to see John, but she had already told him her purpose in going to town. He knew her well enough to know that she would not have volunteered her reason if she weren't going to see him.

Breakfast passed without further conversation. Both were too busy trying to get things straightened up so that they would not miss the train to revive last night's argument.

On the way out of the house, they passed through the living room. Helen's book lay where she had placed it the previous evening. They left the house and drove to the station in silence. Frank bought a paper and gave one section to Helen. They did not have to wait long; the train pulled in before they had time to begin reading. They climbed on to the train and found an empty pair of seats. Smoothly the train rolled away from the station. They said nothing, either from a desire to remain silent or to find out what else had happened in the world last night. Each decided that, in Frank's world of finance, and in Helen's world at large, their several worlds had been relatively peaceful compared to their experience of the night before.

When the train reached the terminal, they descended and took up the hurrying step of the commuter. They entered the great vaulted waiting room and stopped to say goodbye.

"Are you taking the 5:07, dear?" she asked.

"Yes. I don't think I'll be delayed today."

"Fine. I'll meet you and we can ride home together." Helen's eyes searched his face, looking for some sign that would tell her that the scenes of the previous evening had not been wasted. She knew that he was in a hurry to get away, yet he seemed to linger, as if unwilling to leave just yet.

Frank did not want to look at her, but he raised his eyes from the polished floor to meet hers briefly. When he had confirmed the fact that her face was tense with eager questioning, he lowered his head to look at the paper held close to his chest. "Helen," he said but did not look at her. He paused. "Say 'Hello' to John for me, will you?"

She handed her section of the paper to him, and, placing her hand tenderly on his arm, said, " Of course, Frank. Of course, I will."

He started to turn away from her and then, looking across the vast room, said, "I really didn't mean what I said about wanting John to die in that crash."

"Of course you didn't, dear. We all say things we don't mean when we're excited and hurt," she said with a happy compassion in her voice. "We may not always like learning something we do not want to know about our children but we must accept the truth no matter how much we do not like it."

As if he had not been listening to her, Frank continued, "I'm glad he lived through that."

Impulsively, Helen stood on the tips of her toes and brushed her lips against his cheek, "I'm glad you both did."

Nodding slowly, Frank completed his turn, and walked off into the crowd of hurrying people.

Helen watched him go for a moment and then looked around for a telephone booth. Spying a row of them at one side of the room, she walked briskly towards them. She entered one of the booths ranged along the wall and dialed her number.

"Hello. Hello, John . . . ?"

"Yes, dear, it's mother

"Just fine. And you.

Yes, I did. And your father read it, too. .

"How? Oh, that's a woman's secret, dear. But I'll give you a hint. I did it with a jar of caviar."

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