Satisfied that his palms were no longer moist, Art followed the sound of Emrys' voice into the parlor. Emrys looked off, in a way that Art usually saw him look in opium dens — although there was no smell of opium in the room. Art took off his coat; he hung it over the back of the indicated couch, and dropped into it. He was still feeling nervous. He placed his palms on his thighs.

He had half-thought that Emrys summoned him here to break things off — it had always seemed like a half-inevitable eventuality. This, though, was a surprise — the last time they had talked about Emrys' now-wife in detail, Emrys had asked Art if he'd ever come out to a woman.

Art leaned against the back of the sofa. "What happened?" he asked; he was trying to sound more confident than he actually was.