Charlotte, an apostle for married bliss, had marshaled her counterarguments with skill. Rowland, in her view, needed rescuing from himself: he was a handsome, kind, intelligent, good man who would one day make an exemplary husband and father; the course of his life, unfortunately, had taken a wrong turn since the events in Washington, D.C. of six years before.

“He’s eaten up with guilt and grief and remorse,” Charlotte had cried. “And women throw themselves at him. All those stupid girls, rushing about, ironing his shirts, cooking dinner for him, ministering unto him. Rowland’s so blind. He doesn’t even realize they’re in love with him—and when he does, he runs a mile. What Rowland needs is a wife, Max. Someone kindhearted. Someone mature. Someone with a sense of humor…”

“The love of a good woman?” Max put in, and groaned.

“Precisely,” Charlotte replied with force. “And since Rowland’s far too obstinate ever to admit that himself, he needs guidance. A helping hand. If he could just get to know Lindsay a little better—”

“No,” Max had interrupted. “No, Charlotte. It’s playing with fire—and it’s Lindsay who would end up in the burn unit. Forget it.”

Charlotte, after further resistance, had finally backed down. Now, looking at his friend, Max wavered; Charlotte’s instincts could be surprisingly sharp: what if his wife had been right all along?

“Tell me, Rowland,” he began cautiously. “Don’t you ever think about marrying, settling down?”

“No,” Rowland replied.

“I don’t see how you can be so certain.” Max persevered. “I might have said that before I met Charlotte. Then I changed my mind. Rapidly, if you remember…”

“I do remember.” Rowland glanced back at him and gave a smile. “I was standing next to you when you were introduced, if you recall. She silenced you. I knew you were in trouble right away.”

“I was deciding to marry her,” Max said with dignity. “I admit my repartee wasn’t too startling, but I was making silent plans. Of course”—he eyed Rowland in a speculative way—“it doesn’t always happen that way. It might be a more gradual process. A woman might be just a friend, a colleague, and then the relationship—well, it might develop in an unexpected way…”

He looked at Rowland hopefully, but Rowland had already lost interest. He had returned to his inspection of the photographs on the wall. He had unbent a little though, Max thought. Encouraged, he leaned forward.

“What happened to that last girl of yours,” he ventured in a casual way. “The French one? Is she still around?”

“Sylvie? No. I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

“It’s over, then?” Max looked thoughtful. “Decisively over? You mean—she doesn’t write, or phone?”

“Decisively over.” Rowland’s voice was dry. “Which didn’t prevent her calling me thirty-two times last week. Or was it thirty-three?” He paused, half smiling, looking back at Max, then he frowned. “Extraordinary. She seemed so independent. I don’t understand women, Max. I don’t understand them at all.”

“Who does?” Max replied with delicacy, and waited. The expression on Rowland’s face became one of gloom.