“There,” Henry said as if he had not heard. He put two cups and saucers on a tray. He even remembered a little white cloth and spoons, sugar, cream in the silver pitcher. “We’ve got lots of time. Let’s sit down and drink this.”

So she followed him into the living room, the room she had dreamed of and planned and agonized over, spending weeks looking for the curtain material to match soft blue and white handwoven rugs, the one sea-green chair, this room that had come to mean that she had emerged into her real life, trusting her own judgment at last. As she sat down she put her hand out and touched the arm of the chair as if to prove that she was not dreaming. Yet even this house, this room had, after all, been invaded by Edward. Just there at the fireplace he had stood three years ago, scorning them (oh, how she felt his scorn), first being icily polite, then suddenly raging at Henry, for no reason, because Henry had said something perfectly sensible about the refugee doctors, that there were enough Jewish doctors already for their own good and it was absolutely necessary that the exams be kept stiff. Hot shame shot through her again. Why did Edward have to be so difficult, so raw? And why did it hurt so? Even Henry had understood that she must make it up somehow, forced her to write Edward afterwards, for it was true—and Henry sensed it—that always somewhere in a deep layer of her consciousness Edward existed, an unsolved problem, something with which she could not cope, deeply disturbing.

“People will talk, of course; we’ve got to face that,” he said, then, “Maybe it’s just as well you’ll be away for a few days, honey.”

For the last few moments, she had been alone with Edward. She had faced Edward and his anger and suffering here in her own house alone. Now it was as if hundreds of faces were peering in through the great glass windows, pointing at her and at Henry, innocent dear distinguished Henry; sneering and accusing faces, or just curious faces. She would never be alone with Edward again, then. He had deliberately pushed himself and her and all their lives onto the front pages. She put her face in her hands, trembling with the force of the image.

“How could he do it?” she said, and she meant “do it to us.”