One Saturday morning he made his usual visit to the bank. He exchanged a little banter with Al, the cashier, whose jovial face smiled at him through the teller's window. Through with his business, he was turning to leave when Al stopped him.

"Hey, Roger, almost forgot... something here with your name on it." Roger took the plain envelope which Al reached toward him. It bore his name in Ted's unforgettable script. His face was a mask, but his heart raced wildly as something inside it began bursting back into life. Al's face had an air of curiosity, but Roger volunteered no explanations. "Much obliged, Al," was all he said as he strode to the street, stuffing the letter inside his shirt.

Instead of going home, as he had planned, he walked to the edge of town. In a secluded spot beyond the outskirts, he sat down on the ground, and reached for the letter. He held it in his hands for a moment, tortured by suspense, then he slowly tore the flap. On the single sheet of writing paper were a few hastily written lines. "Roger," they said, "I'm back in Dunesville. Things are going OK here now. I'll be staying through the winter. Come if you can. Bring the paintings. Yours, Ted." Roger's hands caressed the paper, as he read the words over and over again. Intensely, his mind projected itself toward Dunesville, toward Ted. He could support himself easily there, he thought, repairing boats and engines along the town's busy wharves. What could keep him from going. except his mother. She would be left alone. He buried his face in his hands. A half-hour passed. He had not moved, and was as far from a decision as ever. He stood up heavily, and stretched, and put the letter back in its place of concealment. He could feel the paper crinkle reassuringly against his skin, as he slowly walked toward home.

At his front door, he heard steps approaching swiftly from within. The door was flung open in his face.

"Roger... !" The old acidity was back in his mother's voice. "Where have you been?"

"I just took a little walk, mother.”

"You were supposed to come right home from the bank to do some errands. Remember?"

"I'm sorry... I must have forgotten..."

"You're always forgetting lately. Ruth, Edna and Jane are coming over this afternoon for dinner and cards. Get this list of groceries from the store right away. After that, you've got to mow the lawn and pick up the litter from the back yard. It looks awful. Then you've got to move furniture so I can clean up downstairs. They're coming at five, and it's two now, so you haven't much time. Hurry." She thrust a sizeable shopping list in his hands, and closed the door. He had barely reached the street when the front door reopened. ". . . and don't forget, if you expect to eat with us, you've got to change out of those filthy work clothes, and dress presentably." The door slammed shut.

As he hastened toward town, he was aware for the first time of a feeling of indignation, of hostility for his mother. It deepened and became more terrible with each stride. To her he was no son, he thought bitterly, only a slightly privileged houseboy. Silently he returned under a heavy burden of packages, and went about the chores. He did not change his clothes. At five, he retired to his workshop. At nine, he tiptoed into the kitchen and gulped some leftovers from supper. From the front rooms came a murmur of voices as his mother and her cronies sat at bridge. At ten, he was lying on his bed, asleep, still dressed, Ted's letter crushed between his hands.