“IT’S KIND OF YOU, MR. TOOHEY,” SAID MRS. KEATING HUMBLY. “I’M glad you came. I don’t know what to do with Petey. He won’t see anyone. He won’t go to his office. I’m scared, Mr. Toohey. Forgive me, I mustn’t whine. Maybe you can help, pull him out of it. He thinks so much of you, Mr. Toohey.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Where is he?”

“Right here. In his room. This way, Mr. Toohey.”

The visit was unexpected. Toohey had not been here for years. Mrs. Keating felt very grateful. She led the way down the hall and opened a door without knocking, afraid to announce the visitor, afraid of her son’s refusal. She said brightly:

“Look, Petey, look what a guest I have for you!”

Keating lifted his head. He sat at a littered table, bent under a squat lamp that gave a poor light; he was doing a crossword puzzle torn out of a newspaper. There was a tall glass on the table, with a dried red rim that had been tomato juice; a box containing a jigsaw puzzle; a deck of cards; a Bible.

“Hello, Ellsworth,” he said, smiling. He leaned forward to rise, but forgot the effort, halfway.

Mrs. Keating saw the smile and stepped out hastily, relieved, closing the door.

The smile went, not quite completed. It had been an instinct of memory. Then he remembered many things which he had tried not to understand.

“Hello, Ellsworth,” he repeated helplessly.

Toohey stood before him, examining the room, the table, with curiosity.

“Touching, Peter,” he said. “Very touching. I’m sure he’d appreciate it if he saw it.”

“Who?”

“Not very talkative these days, are you, Peter? Not very sociable?”

“I wanted to see you, Ellsworth. I wanted to talk to you.”

Toohey grasped a chair by the back, swung it through the air, in a broad circle like a flourish, planted it by the table and sat down.

“Well, that’s what I came here for,” he said. “To hear you talk.”

Keating said nothing.

“Well?”

“You mustn’t think I didn’t want to see you, Ellsworth. It was only ... what I told mother about not letting anyone in ... it was on account of the newspaper people. They won’t leave me alone.”

“My, how times change, Peter. I remember when one couldn’t keep you away from newspaper people.”

“Ellsworth, I haven’t any sense of humor left. Not any at all.”

“That’s lucky. Or you’d die laughing.”

“I’m so tired, Ellsworth.... I’m glad you came.”

The light glanced off Toohey’s glasses and Keating could not see his eyes; only two circles filled with a metallic smear, like the dead headlights of a car reflecting the approach of something from a distance.

“Think you can get away with it?” asked Toohey.

“With what?”

“The hermit act. The great penance. The loyal silence.”

“Ellsworth, what’s the matter with you?”

“So he’s not guilty, is he? So you want us to please leave him alone, do you?”

Keating’s shoulders moved, more