If he ever suspected any lack of finer fiber in Max, he put the thought away.
Max had new friends, new social obligations; his time was taken up.
Max, cigarette in hand, was coming across, under the ailanthus tree.
Max had roused at the sound of Le Moyne's voice, not to suspicion, of course, but to memory.
"I'm not absolutely useless where I am, you know, Max," he said.
"Very, very happy," said Dr. Max, and kissed her again on the lips.
There were no evenings when Dr. Max could bring Sidney back to the hospital in his car.
The thing that rankled and filled him with a sense of failure was Max Wilson's attitude.
Once at least, whenever they were together, she brought Max into the conversation.
He would miss her, too; but he would have Harriet and Christine and—Max.