her small head. That was the way he remembered her, and he tormented himself with doubts as to whether she had changed. She wasn't a girl any longer; she was the mother of two children, and a widow. She had been through troubles with her husband.
At lunch he scarcely spoke to Naomi and his mother, and he never uttered the name of Mary Conyngham, for something made him cautious: he could not say what it was, save that he felt he oughtn't to speak of her before the other two. He had to see Mary Conyngham; he had to talk with her, to talk about himself. He couldn't go on any longer, always shut in, always imprisoned in the impenetrable cell of his own loneliness. It was Mary Conyngham who could help him; he was certain of it.
He left Naomi at the door of the restaurant, telling her that he meant to go for a walk. He would return later to sleep. No, he didn't feel tired. He thought a walk would do him good.
And then, when he had left her, he walked toward the part of the town where Mary lived, and when he reached her street, he found that he hadn't the courage even to pass her house, for fear she might see him and wonder why he was walking about out there on the borders of the town. For an hour he walked, round and round the block encircling her house, but never passing it. It wasn't only that she might think h'm a fool, but she might be changed and hard. If she had changed as much as he himself had changed, it would only be silly and futile, the whole affair. But he couldn't go on forever thus walking round and round, because people would think him mad, as mad as his mother and Naomi believed him.
