"You're imagining things,” said George quietly. "I ought to know. I'm the one who lives here.” Alberg turned back to him. He grasped George's hand; it was gnarled and knotty, but his grip was firm and strong. "Your garden's very beautiful," said Alberg. "It seems no give you a lot of happiness." "It used to,” said George hoarsely, and pulled his hand free. Alberg thought of his ex-wife, no longer his but at least alive. He thought of his daughters, no longer near but still his. He thought of the years he had to live before he would reach George Wilcox's age. "Where's your daughter?" he said. "Carol; is that her name?” "She's in Vancouver. Lives near Stanley Park.” "Do you see her often?” "Sometimes. She lives in an apartment. I'm not fond of apartments." He was clutching his hands tightly in front of him. They seemed to be trembling. Again Alberg hesitated. He wanted to say something comforting, but this wouldn't have been appropriate. It was an impulse with no genuine substance; he had known the old man for too short a time, under circumstances which had not been friendly, and suddenly realized now that he knew him not at all.
