From a distance, Wilson could see the shine of that familiar coupe driving up to his station. With a strained effort, he left the shade and support of the doorway, and, breathing hard, unscrewed the cap of the tank. In the sunlight his face was green.

“I’m sorry for the wait… I’m sick,” he muttered, dragging a sleeve across his damp forehead, his voice strained and uneven. He set the tank down with a struggle. “Been sick all day. I’m all run down.”

He had learned, not gradually but all at once, that Myrtle had some sort of life apart from him in another world, one that had never made space for him, and the shock had made him physically sick. The knowledge had settled in his stomach like something rotten, turning him hollow and feverish.

And suddenly, it seemed to him that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well.