He should have some socially graceful way to convey both that he was happy to do it and that he's not saying it didn't matter to him. What he actually says is "Getting you out of the asylum or signing on to fight the thing or--?"

"The asylum. Continuing the work is noble but it is hardly a thing you are doing for my sake."

"...you're welcome. I wish I could have done more, or sooner."

"Most would not even have done so much. I have taken up painting again."

Yeah. He knows they wouldn't. "So I have to do even more or it won't get done, I think. I'm glad you're painting?"

"Something pleasant to do in my retirement. Mrs. Winston-Rogers has me in a house upstate. There was... concern about me living with my mother."

"I can imagine."

"The mouths have gone away. It's nice to stop seeing the wall crack into a mouth every time I turn my head."

Nod. "I'm glad they didn't follow you?" This is probably the wrong response but he doesn't know the right one.

"Yes." He looks awkward, not sure what he wants to say. "I-- just wanted to say thank you. You are a good man, Mr. Orkney."

Tiny smile. "I try. Thank you. --I'm a journalist, I don't know if you know? The most well-read thing I've ever written was a book on abuses in asylums. I -- am very glad to hear that I could help."

"Mrs. Winston-Rogers told me. I read some of your books. Quite enjoyed them. I hope you are able to write again, someday."

"I hope so too. And I hope your painting is going well."

Henslowe talks for a few minutes about developments in painting while he was gone, and other changes. There are apple sellers on the streets of New York now. The breadlines are striking to him. And it is remarkable to see the bars open for business. And talkies! Henslowe marvels at the talkies.

A lot of things have changed in the last ten years! The breadlines you get used to but the talkies are indeed very good.

Has Mr. Aarons seen the talkies, what does he think of them.

He has seen at least a few of them, and enjoyed the ones he's seen! He's -- doing a lot better now that he's out.

So is Henslowe. "He... could be a good man."

"He got caught up by mistake. Thought it was all just -- historical anthropology -- until the day you met him. I don't think he would have been involved at all, if he'd known."

"It-- is a shame how it catches people up. Anthropologists and journalists and, well, artists. It is not a thing you get involved in of your own free will. By the time you know what is happening, you're in too deep to leave."

"Or too addicted, or too -- eaten --" He's thinking about Ayers but he's also thinking about Lacie. "Metaphorically eaten, I mean, obviously if you're literally eaten that's a different kind of tragic."

"Yes. Still, we can acquit ourselves well or badly in what Providence has put in front of us. And... it is a cold comfort to have acquitted oneself well-- especially if your friends are eaten, literally or metaphorically. But I find that my honor is one thing they can never take from me."

"We can acquit ourselves well or badly, but --" and here he struggles for words for a moment. "My friend holds the philosophy that people would be basically good, if they had the chance and the space to be. That being good is hard, because the world is broken, and not everyone can do it, but if they could they would be. I don't know if I agree. But I do think he's a better person than I am."

"I don't know about that. I think there is always a choice, in every situation. No one can force you to lose your honor. But by the same token it is never too late to begin to rebuild your honor again."

He thinks about Ayers, and Lev. He thinks about Lacie. He thinks about Louise Fauche. "I hope you're right."