She washed off another dish. “This plate has a crack in it.” She set it down on the sink. “Not that you’d notice, with that design.”

He lifted it up, with an air of taking it into safe custody, and dried it. “You never understood about Nina,” he said. “I needed time to work that out.”

“All I knew was”—she set the last dish on the draining board—“I wasn’t staying around for any blinking Judgment of Paris.” She began to wash out the sink.

“I didn’t feel like Paris.”

“Who knows what Paris felt like?”

He held a glass up to the light. “Whatever became of the apple, after it was awarded?”

“Don’t know. Unless that was the apple that What’s-his-name threw to Atalanta. Where do these spoons go?”

“In the middle drawer. What was his name?”

“Menander.”

“No—that’s a poet. Meleager.”

“Of course.”

“It’s like a game of catch—this apple getting chucked about in history. Paris—Meleager—Adam—William Tell…”

“Newton,” she said, surprisingly. She took the dish towel from him. “I think that’s everything.”

“Not quite.”

She put her arms about his waist, the dish towel clasped in her hand. “Did you finish measuring the chest?” she asked.

“Yes—that’s the perfect place for it.”

“I’m so glad.” She leaned against him. “It all makes me nervous sometimes.”

He held her tightly. “I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s enough to make anyone nervous.”

After a moment she lifted her head. “Was that the same Paris who got Helen?”

“Why, yes,” he said. “Wasn’t she his reward—for choosing Love?”

THE SACK OF SILENCE

“Mrs. Peale. Can you hear me?”

“Wait till I turn this off. Now.”

“That noise. Whatever is it?”

“The Hoover was running.”

“How’s that?”

“I said, I was running the vacuum.”

“Not that. Outside. Listen.” Rosie leaned over the banister.

“Oh, it’s the bee, dear.”

“Bee nothing. A thousand woodpeckers working on tin.”

“The working bee. You’ll see if you come down.” Mrs. Peale opened the front door. “Hammering nails into the elms. The whole town.”

“For heaven’s sake.”

“You make a circle of nails round the trunk of the tree. It’s supposed to stop the elm disease.”

“I see.”

“Didn’t you get the circular? And they came round, too, door to door. But then, you didn’t get up here last weekend.”

“No, that’s right, we stayed in town.”

“Nice when you can come up here weekends and be quiet. Don’t trip on the cord.”

Rosie closed the front door and crossed the hallway. “Some coffee, if it’s ready?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got the kettle on for a cup of tea. I’m going over to make cookies for my daughter’s boys when I’m finished here.”

The percolator was drawing great labored breaths, like a patient in anesthesia.