“I mean compared to friendship, I suppose. I can’t bear it, Damon. It shouldn’t be like this between you and Edward.”

“It shouldn’t be, but it is.” He started the car jerkily, throwing Grace forward like an old stiff doll. “Sorry, Julia tells me I’m the worst driver in the world. Did I hurt you?” he asked, more anxiously than the moment warranted.

“I’m quite all right, thank you.”

Stopped at a red light at the foot of the hill, Damon lit another cigarette and turned to Grace. “The trouble with Edward, Grace, is that he’s too passionate about these things. It isn’t his real self—because when it comes to the things he really cares about—Wallace Stevens’ poetry, say—he can be judicial and balanced. Why is it? It’s like some illness he has, and it’s much worse now than it used to be. Am I wrong? I’m not trying to justify myself. I may be wrong about this political thing. Maybe I am just a liberal, as Edward would say with contempt. Only”—the car jerked forward again—“I’m proud of being one, that’s the difference. Liberalism implies generosity and it seems as if, politically speaking, Edward were incapable any more of generosity.”

“He would call your generosity compromise and cowardice, Damon.”

“Do you?” he asked as at last they turned off down Beacon Street and had a clear run for a few blocks.

“I don’t know what I think. I’m upset,” she said. “What’s going to happen now?” she asked in a frightened voice.

“As far as the Union goes this is a minor matter, Grace. There’s no point in making a mountain out of a molehill. There are no Communists on our board, as we all know. It’s easy enough to write an informal letter of assurance——”

“Edward’s lonely,” she said, off on her own train of thought. “I’m anxious about him.”

“He’s always been lonely,” Damon said thoughtfully. “I wonder why.” She didn’t answer this. They had come to Massachusetts Avenue now and turned onto the bridge to cross the river. There it lay, deep lacquered blue with the lights reflected in it and Boston, the great city, suddenly small and intimate along its rim. This sudden view of the river, so calm, so beautiful and quiet, upset her. She was in fact, near to tears, and felt absurdly nervous in consequence. She was not a woman for whom tears are a relief. Anger was the only emotion she could handle and enjoy. Anything else terrified her.

“Partly perhaps he has laid too great a weight upon friendship, for lack of love—or because of love—which is it? I’m upset too,” Damon said quietly now. “Just as upset as you are.”