any name to what he felt toward Mrs. Markyn.
"I don't know how to approach you," his father said. "You're as incomprehensible to me as, I suppose, I am to you."
What, Peewee wondered, was his father getting at? He drew up a chair and sat down facing Peewee and took both his small hands. He seemed embarassed and uncertain.
"Son, when you saw your mother before she died, did she tell you her name?"
"No, sir," said Peewee.
"You know it, though?"
"Yes, sir. Helen Lampert." There could be, Peewee felt, no object to be gained by not being open with his father. "She changed her names," he offered.
"I know she changed her names. But Helen Lampert was her real one. Did she—," his father hesitated. "Did she speak as though she had ever changed her name the way women usually change their names—by being married?"
The question was a little deep for Peewee. "No," he decided finally.
"Did she tell you she had not been married?"
