He could hardly recall how it had developed, what had first been said between them, whether either of them resisted the idea. His memories of Nettie were like a pile of snapshots never arranged according to date. He could see her quite clearly, though, sitting in a garden chair, and in a car, and, of all things, riding a bicycle; and facing him across a table—in a restaurant, he thought—looking profoundly sad and enjoying herself hugely.

If, he told himself, I were to say now that I’ve thought of her (just because it would please her—and they would probably never meet again), she might simply get emotional. Not having thought of it for years, she might seize the opportunity to have a good cry. Or perhaps she doesn’t really want to discuss the past; perhaps she’s as uncomfortable as I.… All the same, she looked quite composed. He might almost have said a little satirical, as though she found his life quite dull and could rejoice that, after all, she had not shared it. (He saw himself, for an instant, with what he imagined to be her eyes. What a pity she had come just now—he had worked hard last winter, and he thought it had told on him.)

It was true, of course, that he had responsibilities, couldn’t be rushing about the world pleasing himself, as she could. But no man, he assured himself irritably, could be entirely satisfied with what had happened to him. There must always be the things one had chosen not to do. One couldn’t explore every possibility—one didn’t have a thousand years. In the end, what was important? One’s experience, one’s ideas, what one read; some taste, understanding. He had his three sons, his work, his friends, this house. There was Matt, his eldest boy, who was so promising. (Then he recalled that during lunch today he had spoken sharply to Matt over something or other, and Nettie had laughed. She had made a flippant remark about impatience; that he hadn’t changed at all, was that it? Some such silly, proprietary thing—which he had answered, briefly, with dignity. He knew himself to be extremely patient.)

Yes, Nettie could be quite tiresome, he remembered—almost with relief, having feared, for a moment, his own sentimentality. She made excessive demands on people; her talk was full of exaggerations. She had no sense of proportion, none whatever—and wasn’t that exactly the thing one looked for in a woman? And she took a positive pride in condoning certain kinds of conduct, because they demonstrated weaknesses similar to her own. She was not fastidious, as May was.