“…and so you’ve never been married, Rowland?” she heard. “A handsome man like you? What’s wrong with modern girls? Why, in my day you’d have been snapped up, Rowland, long ago.”

“Evasive tactics,” she heard Rowland reply. “I have them down to a fine art.”

“Nonsense!” Louise cried. “You just haven’t found the right woman yet. I can always tell—you’re a romantic, Rowland, I’m sure.”

“You’re right,” Rowland said astonishingly. “Louise, you see into the secrets of my heart.”

“Without her glasses,” Tom put in, “which she’s too vain to wear, she can’t see the wall opposite. So I doubt—”

“Now, Tom, don’t advertise my frailties.” Louise gave a gusty sigh. “Though it is true, Rowland. I have to admit it. I am getting older, and I am getting rather frail.”

“Never,” said Rowland in firm and gallant tones.

“Now, Rowland. No flattery. You’re a sweet man, but the truth is, I’m not getting any younger, and without Lindsay I couldn’t manage at all. I feel I’m a terrible burden to her, though she never complains.”

“It wouldn’t occur to her, I’m sure.”

“Yes, well, I depend on her,” Louise said, her voice sharpening, as if she objected to something in Rowland’s tone. “It’s a case of whither she goes, I go. Like Ruth. In the Bible. You know.”

Lindsay, who had remained frozen in her bedroom doorway throughout this not-unfamiliar recital, could stand it no longer. Usually, it took Louise several weeks to work through this repertoire; why on earth had she accelerated to this degree?

She entered the living room, face set. She wondered if Rowland had noticed that the room, though large and pleasant, looked as if it had recently been struck by a hurricane. Would he notice what two days of Louise and Tom could do to a room, and if he noticed, would he care?

Tom was sitting opposite Rowland and Louise, amid a pile of books on Ingmar Bergman. He was wearing no shoes, and had holes in his socks. On his lap was a tray on which was a giant-size squeezy bottle of ketchup, and a plate piled high with burgers, french fries, and onions. Louise and Rowland, meanwhile, looked distinctly pally. Louise’s blue eyes were fixed on Rowland, and Rowland’s face wore a relaxed, easy smile. Tom met Lindsay’s gaze with an expression of profound sympathy. He even remembered, loyally, to attempt to rise.

“Don’t get up, Tom,” Lindsay said rather wildly as Rowland beat him to it. “Rowland, I’ve found the article.”

“And we should go, alas.” Rowland had already put down his wineglass and was now extending his hand, with extreme courtesy, to Louise.

“Louise, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Tom, I’ll send over those books I mentioned.”

Louise was busy mouthing the words wonderful man, and making sure Rowland saw her do it. With surprising difficulty, considering how nimbly she’d nipped across to the window earlier, she allowed Rowland to help her up from the sofa. She gave him a brave grimace, then a brave sigh. “No, no, it’s nothing…” She waved Rowland aside. “Just this little pain I get in my spine. Rowland, I’m so glad to have met you. Of course, I felt as if I knew you already. Lindsay talks about you all the time.”