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Ben gathered her groceries on the counter. He put the oleo down hard, slapping the waxed cardboard against the wood.

The girl jumped.

“Saaaaay—you’re nervous as a cat,” said Ben. “Rose make you that way? She that kind? Rose wants what she wants when she wants it?”

“Rose is just a plain, dumpy little nurse, who still doesn’t know what hit her,” she said stiffly. “She’s scared to death.”

“She’ll get over that quick enough,” said Ben. “They all do. Come next summer, Rose’ll be strutting around here like she’d just invented gunpowder.”

“I don’t think she’s that kind,” she said. “I certainly hope not.”

Ben smiled askance. “Just an angel of mercy,” he said. He winked. “By God, for twelve million bucks, I’d have nursed him, wouldn’t you?”

“Rose had no idea he was going to leave her everything,” she said.

Ben leaned back against the shelves, pretending to be crucified. “Oh, come now—come, come,” he said.

“A lonely old man on his deathbed in a big apartment on Park Avenue—hanging on to life, begging for life, begging for somebody to care.” He saw the scene vividly. “Kilraine calls out in the night, and who comes?” Ben smiled demurely. “Rose—the angel of mercy. She fluffs his pillow, rubs his back, tells him everything’s going to be fine, and gives him his sleeping pills. She’s the whole world to him.”

Ben waggled his finger at the girl. “And you mean to tell me it didn’t pop into Rose’s little head that maybe he might leave her just a little something to remember him by?”

She dropped her gaze to the floor. “It might have crossed her mind,” she murmured.

“Might?” said Ben triumphantly. “It did—and I don’t mean once; I mean hundreds of times.” He added up her bill. “I’ve never laid eyes on her,” he said, “but, if there’s one thing I learned about in this business, it’s how the human mind works.” He looked up. “Two ninety-five.”

He was amazed to see tears on the rims of her eyes.

“Oh, hey—say, now,” said Ben remorsefully. He touched her. “Gosh—hey, listen—don’t mind me.”

“I don’t think it’s very nice for you to talk that way about people you don’t even know,” she said tautly.

Ben nodded. “You’re right, you’re right. Don’t mind me. You picked a lousy time to come in. I was looking around for something to hit. Why, hell—Rose is probably the salt of the earth.”

“I didn’t say that,” she said. “I never claimed that.”

“Well, whatever it was you did claim,” said Ben. “Don’t pay any attention to me.” He shook his head, and he wondered at the two dead years in the grocery store. Anxiety and a million nagging details had held him prisoner all that time, numbed him, dried him out. There’d been no time for love or play—no time, even, for thoughts of them.

He worked his fingers, unsure that love and playfulness would ever come back into them.

“I shouldn’t be ragging a nice girl like you,” he said. “I should give you a smile and a gardenia.”

“Gardenia?” she said.

“Sure,” said Ben. “When I opened up two years ago, I gave every lady customer a smile and a gardenia. Since you’re my last customer, seems like you ought to get a little something, too.” He gave her the opening-day smile.

The smile and the offer of a gardenia pleased and confused the poor, pretty mouse of a girl, and made her blush.

Ben was fascinated. “Gee,” he said, “now you make me really sorry the florist shop is closed.”

Her pleasure went on and on, and so did Ben’s. Ben could almost smell the gardenia, could almost see her pinning it on, her hands all thumbs.

“You’re selling your store?” she said.

There was radiance between them now. There were overtones and undertones to everything they said. The talk itself was formal, lifeless.

“The business failed,” said Ben. It didn’t matter much anymore.

“What are you going to do now?” she said.

“Dig clams,” said Ben, “unless you’ve got a better idea.” He cocked his head, and, with the control of an actor, he showed in his face how keenly hungry for a girl he was.

Her fingers tightened on her purse, but she didn’t look away. “Is that hard work?” she said.

“Cold work,” said Ben. “Lonely