Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. He looked eager and flushed and troubled. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. “Take me back. "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige. The wards on the right were occupied by male patients, on the left by the female. He pulled on her shoulder, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss. Why hadn't he admitted that he recognized the photograph? What instinct had impelled him swiftly to assume his Oriental mask? "Why?" asked O'Higgins.
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