In the street I had to lean against the wall of an office building for a time, for there was no strength in my legs. A policeman came from the centre of the street.
"Just a momentary faintness," I answered. "I'm all right, really."
"Well, go in there and get yourself a drink."
I saw him pointing with his club at a nearby café. I got there somehow and sat down at a little table.
"What's yours, bud?" the bartender called with a great assumption of joviality.
"A glass of sherry," I gasped. He brought it and set it before me. I saw him preparing for a pleasant chat.
"I'm very sorry," I said, "but would you mind not talking to me? I--I've got some business to think out."
"Oh, have it your own way," he replied, deeply offended, and returned behind his bar.
There was just one problem in my mind. What was I to say to Helen? Should I tell her the truth? Ought I to tell her? Three months, or less, the doctor had said. Could I make her happy for those three months? Was that not better than telling her? But would she guess? Could I keep it from her? Should I be able to play my part? Back and forth these questions raced in my mind. No answer came, for either choice seemed wrong. Helen and I did not lie to each other. But this was a different kind of lie from any mere vulgar deception. Had she the right to know?
"Say, if you're going to sit there all day, how about a little action?"--this from the bartender.
"Oh, hell," I exclaimed, "bring me anything you like--or have it yourself on me."
"Thanks, I'll take half a dozen cigars," he said, rattling a box. "Damned if you aren't a queer guy. From the East, I guess."
"Yes--but please do me the favour to keep still."
"I'm not trying to butt in on nobody," he muttered, aggrieved again. "And I'm good enough to talk to any stuck-up Eastern guy that comes along."
As I disappointed him by ignoring this last remark, he took refuge in polishing glasses. I was conscious of a distant rumbling inside him from time to time. But I did not dare go back to Helen until I had got control of myself again. Furthermore, I must make up my mind about what I was to tell her. There seemed no way in which I could force my thoughts into an orderly arrangement. Little glimpses of our life together--of all we had done and planned in the last four years--kept interposing themselves between me and the present. "Helen--Helen--my Helen--my wife," was ceaselessly echoing inside my head. Finally a resolve came to me. "I can't tell her," I said to myself--"right or wrong, I can't."