“Pascal, please.” She made a quick impulsive move toward him. “I can’t bear to see you like this. Please. If you would just listen to me—let me try to explain…”

She halted; the expression on his face halted her; she let her outstretched hand fall.

“Explain?” He moved farther away. “I should have known—in this situation—anything one says, it’s going to sound like a cliché, as if we’re both trapped in a bad play. And yet I feel—I love you so much, Gini. And I thought you loved me.”

“I do love you—”

“Please—don’t.” He lifted his hand. “I don’t think I can bear it if you tell me that kind of lie. You’ve been in bed with someone else—How could you do that? Why would you do that? What in God’s name made you do that? I spoke to you Sunday night, at Max’s—that’s less than forty-eight hours ago. You said nothing then—you never gave me the least indication—”

“There was nothing to say then, Pascal. I wasn’t lying to you then. I wasn’t hiding anything.”

“Your letters…” He couldn’t hear her, she thought. Every interjection she made seemed to pass him by. He was reaching into his jacket pocket now, pulling out a bundle of letters. He tossed them away from him onto the bed.

“Everything you said—I know those letters by heart. You know how often I’ve read them, and reread them? You said—always was one of your words. I didn’t ask you to use that. You were free, and you chose. Gini—how could you do that? Why? I trusted you so completely. I thought—You think I could have gone off, anytime these last two months, and gone to bed with some other woman? I couldn’t have done that, I couldn’t have wanted to do that. The only woman I wanted was the woman I loved.”

Gini turned away from him with a low cry of despair. She looked unseeingly around this room, this very French room, with its blue toile-de-Jouy-covered walls; nymphs and shepherdesses disported themselves among romanticized ruins; small heraldic animals punctuated these pastoral scenes. The patterns blurred before her eyes and clamored in her mind. She couldn’t look at Pascal; she was afraid to look at a face she loved so much.

“It wasn’t planned,” she burst out. “Pascal—it may make no difference, but I want you to believe me. There was no lead-up to this, no flirtation. I wasn’t persuaded or seduced—it wasn’t like that at all. I can’t let you think that—it isn’t fair to Rowland. He didn’t foresee this any more than I did. I’ve only just met him, I scarcely know him. We’re working together, I told you that—and when I arrived last night—we were quarreling, and then—I can’t remember. I think he touched my arm. Or took my hand. And then—it just happened. I weakened. It was my fault. I don’t know why I did it. I’ve—missed you, and I’ve been unhappy, and lonely too. None of that is any excuse, I know that—”