“Yes,” Isabel said sharply. “I know.”

“That wasn’t it,” Goldberg said almost savagely.

“How do you know?” For suddenly she resented him, resented his swallowing her up in his own conflicts whatever they were, resented his asking her to lunch for some purpose of his own.

“Forgive me, I”—he smoked at his cigarette furiously—“you shared your brother’s political beliefs?”

Isabel caught her breath. It was a direct attack and she was not prepared. “No,” she murmured. “I hated all that. I didn’t understand it. He seemed crazy to me.” She went the whole way. Why not? He might as well know the worst.

She was amazed to see that he was relieved. The little smile played around his lips again. He attacked his omelette with relish. What have I done, she thought? I’ve given him something I didn’t mean to give. We are conspirators then, conspirators against Edward, against what Edward meant. He wants me for an ally.

“No he wasn’t crazy”—Goldberg looked up with almost a smile—“and he’s put us both in the wrong. You know that of course,” he said as if he were daring her to deny it, as if he enjoyed it, too. His eyes gleamed behind his glasses.

“Why did you ask me to lunch, Professor Goldberg?” She asked with a trace of reserve. “What do you want of me? I’ve felt ever since I got here that I was being treated as a child in a grown-up world, treated gently. It’s not my world,” she said. “I don’t belong here. I’m a stranger.”

“And afraid, in a world you never made?” It sounded like a quotation, but she did not recognize it.

“Edward was way beyond me even when I was a child,” she added. And then, was it the wine? the food? On a wave of self-assertion she went on to tell him the truth, tell this smug professor the truth. “I feel ashamed. I resent what Edward did,” she said, “if you must know. And I don’t feel guilty,” she ended.

“Neither do I,” Goldberg said blandly. Would she let it pass? After all, they could part now; they would never see each other again. She did not have to push the thing further into places where she would not be able to cope. She saw his left hand clench.

“It’s all so queer. He didn’t play safe,” she heard herself saying, “and most of us do. I bet you do feel guilty,” she ended, looking at him speculatively. “Yes,” she added, as Goldberg lowered his eyes, “you do. Why?”