and got a six-pack of beer. "Beer!" he said, triumphantly, reaching for the beer opener that hung by a chain from the rear-view mirror.

Faith didn't say anything, and he opened the first bottle.

"Do you want some?" he asked, handing her the bottle.

"Yes," she said, and reached for it. He held onto it for a minute, and Faith noticed that his eyes looked sad, almost moist, as though he had been crying. "Thank you," she said, and he released his hand, then opened a bottle for himself.

They drank in silence-Don taking long, deep, swallows, and Faith sipping hers slowly, carefully.

"Why did you move into a single room?" he asked, staring straight ahead into the darkness.

"I didn't know that you knew," she said, turning to look at him. He met her gaze, but didn't say anything else.

"I didn't think I was a very good influence for Sue. I'm too moody-I like to be myself. . ."

"I understand," he said. He got a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, lit it and handed it to her. She took it and he lit one for himself.

"I hope," he said, "that your moving didn't have anything to do with what happened.'

"No," she said, "It didn't; I was thinking of moving before that happened." "But that just made it easier?" he finished.

"Yes," she paused, "I suppose so. I guess Sue knew what I said to you that night. She didn't say anything about it to me, but I knew she could tell that something was wrong."

He opened more beer.

"Do you feel badly about it?" he asked.

She didn't say anything for a minute, but she looked at him . . . at his sensitive mouth, his dark perceiving eyes, his slim body. She wanted to reach out, to tell him, to explain to him-instead she said, "Not anymore; it was rather a silly thing to do, Don.'

"You're not an unattractive girl," he said rather softly, moving slightly closer to her.

"I don't know really what to say to you," she said, ignoring his hand that crept around her shoulders. "I feel as though I've wronged you terribly. I said that I loved you, didn't I?" She turned to look at him again, and he withdrew his hand.

"Yes," he said, "You did."

"I thought I did, Don, really I did. But now, I realize that I don't. I was hoping that . . . I would never have to tell you this, but you kept calling me, and I thought you deserved an explanation. It's not every day that a girl goes out wi' a boy, gets drunk on beer, and tells him she loves him!" She laughed, and he smiled.

"Did I hurt you when I said I loved you?" she asked, her voice calm, as though it didn't make any difference to her, but that it might to him.

"Hurt me?" He took a swallow of beer. "I was shocked at first. I mean I didn't expect you to say that . . . not after all the talks we had had, but I can see it was a perfectly natural thing to happen."

"No," she said, "I don't suppose you did. I didn't either."

He moved closer to her again, and put his hand in hers. She didn't move;