He had sat next to Gini, editing her copy on screen. He watched her words scroll; he watched the cursor move; he watched words delete and paragraphs shift. He was aware of the ironies of the procedure, aware that his skills as an editor would shortly be required in a rather different context. He thought as he worked: if I put it in this way, if I use this particular phrase, if I’m careful to delete that emotion; he glanced at her set profile, then quickly away. It seemed to him that any script he concocted would involve not only the deletion of truth, but also of himself.

He felt capable of effecting his plan, nonetheless. He experienced some indecision after Gini left, when briefly his own feelings rebelled, and he twice postponed his London flight. But he was sure by the time he finally came down to this room to say good-bye that he had such weaknesses under control. It might well be that during this brief interview he had to make Gini think ill of him, but he was prepared for that. Being proud by nature, it was not easy for him to envisage losing her respect, but if such a reaction facilitated her disengagement from him, it was a price he was determined should be met.

Yet something began to fail him almost at once.

He allowed himself, finally, to look at her. She was standing by the window with her face averted. He let his eyes rest on the light of her hair, the pale curve of her throat, the soft grayish dress she was wearing. The longing he felt for her then was intense. It was not physical desire, though he knew perfectly well that surge would overwhelm him immediately if he were unwise enough to move forward, or touch her. It was a longing beyond explanation, and certainly the other side of reason, a longing for the joy she alone could now gift. He knew how insubstantial this power was: he knew it was compounded of a thousand frail elements, much intuition, some instinct, some irrational hope, yet it was tensile, as irresistible as steel cables, a winch. He could feel it winding him in, winding him in, through a silence that first whispered, then spoke. He knew she listened to the language of that silence as intuitively as he did. She turned slowly back to meet his gaze, and he was one inch away from the complete certainty that she not only knew, but felt as he did.

She gave a small distressed gesture of the hands, displacing air. He watched her face alter, soften, and then flood with regret.

“Don’t.” She moved across to him and took his hand in hers. “You were going to make a speech—weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“Please don’t. I can imagine it. I was going to make a speech too. A similar one, I think. None of it would have been true—it might have made things easier, but it wouldn’t have been true. I was going to be—oh, hard. Brittle. Dismissive. Light. Maybe a little cheap. I thought cheap might help…” She paused and gave a half-smile. “And you?”