“Well, what happened to him?”

“Mr. Schmitt?”

“Mr. Schmitt.”

He shrugged. “The last I saw of him he was drinking a glass of milk in a diner, a truck stop outside El Paso. I was lucky; I got a ride with a trucker all the way to Newark. I sort of forgot about it. But for the last two months I find myself thinking about Ivory Hunter and George Schmitt. It must be age; I’m starting to feel old myself.”

She knelt beside him again; she held his hand, interweaving her fingers with his. “Fifty-two? And you feel old?”

He had retreated; when he spoke, it was the wondering murmur of a man addressing himself. “I always had such confidence. Just walking the street, I felt such a swing. I could feel people looking at me – on the street, in a restaurant, at a party – envying me, wondering who is that guy. Whenever I walked into a party, I knew I could have half the women in the room if I wanted them. But that’s all over. Seems as though old George Whitelaw has become the invisible man. Not a head turns. I called Mimi Stewart twice last week, and she never returned the calls. I didn’t tell you, but I stopped at Buddy Wilson’s yesterday, he was having a little cocktail thing. There must have been twenty fairly attractive girls, and they all looked right through me; to them I was a tired old guy who smiled too much.”