Clem grunted. Nettie had only completed the two lowest shelves, and he was already stooping to fill the middle of the bookcase. He was tall and light on his feet and looked less than his age, which was forty-two. He had an air of health and confidence as he handled the books, lifting them from the box, glancing at their titles, and ramming them quickly along the shelves. He, too, had rolled up his sleeves, and his arms as they moved back and forth contrasted with Nettie’s fragile and ineffectual ones.

“Here’s Byron,” he said, handing Nettie a book. He looked down at her for the first time, and pulled on her plait of hair. “What’s this floppy thing?”

Self-consciously, she put up her left hand, the book in her right. “I haven’t had time to do it properly.” They resumed their work.

I suppose, Nettie thought, as she made a space between two books and fitted Byron into it, that I am in love with Clem. Love is so much talked and written about, you might expect it to feel quite different; but no, it does correspond to the descriptions—it isn’t commonplace. More like a concentration of all one’s energies. There seems to be a lot of waiting in it, though. I am always waiting for Clem to come into a room, or for other people to go out: Clem, whom I’ve known all my life and who is married to my cousin May. (Her hands, patting the books into an even row, trembled.) I’ve been close to him a thousand times, and this is the first time it has made me tremble. Would I have discovered that I loved him, if he hadn’t drawn my attention to it? And is that really only a week ago?

Now Clem, too, had to kneel, and her cheek came level with his shoulder. He smiled at her, a brief, open smile. Nettie reached up, still pushing the books into line, and the sweater rose above her skirt, showing a white, ribbed strip of her skin.

May rose, and took up a stack of plates. “There. I’ll leave these in the kitchen and Marion can wash them later, with the lunch dishes.” She moved across the room and out of the shaft of sunlight. Her back looked, once more, entirely businesslike. She had a slow, deliberate way of walking—as if she had once been startled into precipitate action and had regretted it. It was the walk of a woman who dealt with men in a straightforward way and must suffer the consequences. Her steps sounded down the uncarpeted corridor.

Clem got to his feet and rummaged in the last box. “What are these?” He held up a book he did not recognize.

“Those are mine. I thought I’d leave them for the summer. I’ll take them up to my room.” Nettie got up, wincing, and rubbed her knees.