"You asked me not to."
"Yes. . . . Yes, so I did." He walked in a troubled silence. 'Tower' is my stage name." Don did not reply; he did not know what to say; he did not understand the situation at all. Where were you going?" Tower asked.
"To Central Park—for a walk. I saw you from a car."
"Are you still boosting?"
"Yes."
"How do you like it?"
"Not—not very well."
Tower nodded. They went along together, under the rattle of elevated trains that made conversation impossible. When they reached the comparative quiet of 59th Street and crossed to the gate of the Park, Tower said suddenly: "You see, I've not been very prosperous of late, and Bert—and the others at home—got exaggerated ideas of what I was doing here—and—I was ashamed to have him know that I'd been boosting and all that, this summer, while I was trying to get an engagement—and meeting you that way—I thought he'd guess." His voice faded out on an explanation that contradicted itself. His difficulty communicated itself to Don, who looked down at his feet, guiltily, beginning to see the truth behind this screen of words. "I knew he wouldn't know who 'Tower' was, even if you told him. It's not the name I use—always. I"
Don plucked a leaf from a bush as he passed it. "He'll meet you some day, on the street."
"Yes. . . . That's what I'm afraid of." He
