"That wasn't why I wanted to see you. But thanks." He fumbled in his
mind for some sort of beginning. "Oh, hell," he finally said. "What I
want to say can be put in two sentences. And they're the hardest two I
ever had to speak. I haven't tried them on anybody yet. But I've got
to--with someone. Meaning you. It goes like this." For a full minute he
sat there saying nothing. Then he pushed back his rather long chestnut
hair and looked at me squarely--with an expression in his eyes that I
would remember for a long time, if I had a long time to remember in.
"I'm in love. And the girl's a whore." He turned away from me, after
that, and looked toward the window, toward afternoon blue sky into
which the sun still pointed. His chin was shaking.
I thought of several responses and picked one carefully. "All right.
It's said--the whole thing. It leaves me fairly undisturbed, Paul."
"I guess you don't understand--don't believe me. I mean it. The girl
actually was--a professional tart. A call girl. What they hold to be a
high-class one."
"So I gathered. I've known several cases."
"It--" He swallowed hard a time or two. "Mind if I have another Scotch?"