But we cannot talk to each other, she thought in a kind of panic. We cannot communicate. In the old days, this banter about the tombstones, this “taking in” of every sight and sound had been like an accompaniment to the undercurrent of communion, and that was its charm. They talked about the trees and the birds, but what they were really saying was, “We can talk about these things because all the important things don’t need to be talked about.”

Now the silence all around them seemed like a threat. They walked on the beautifully kept grass, side by side, and she felt a kind of panic as they left the open spaces and made their way through the pine grove, a narrow dark passage which would lead them out onto the two long ponds where families of wild ducks sometimes came for shelter, and to gobble at the floating green stuff. She had always loved these ponds, but now it seemed as if only damp and darkness and loneliness were there to greet them. Already the light was going, was leaving roots and stones in shadow, brilliant and warm only in the tops of the trees. But what could she say or do? He walked ahead of her, his hands in his pockets and she followed, helpless as a dog. They had come, at the end of the two ponds, to a stone bench where it was traditional to sit down for a little while, traditional for Edward to take out a cigarette. The fact that he did not do so, but just sat there, was the worst of all. Grace nervously took out her binoculars and swept the trees as if they were tiers of boxes at the opera, but all she discovered was a junco. She had to make a great effort of will not to talk. She sensed that if Edward were to get some peace from this walk she must leave him alone, not pry and not gabble.

“Aren’t you going to smoke?” she asked gently, after what seemed an eternity.

“Yes, now that you speak of it, I think I will.” He was pulling himself back to her; she could feel the effort it was. “What have you been doing with yourself?” he asked, when he had lit his cigarette.

“What have I been doing?” She had the impression that she had chiefly been worrying about him, but she must think of something quickly. “Fosca came to tea, of course. I had lunch with an old Radcliffe schoolmate of mine. It depressed me. You would think she had never heard of an idea in her life.”

“I expect you frightened her”—Edward made a stab at the familiar bantering tone.

“Oh no, I was good as gold. I discussed the servant problem and the high cost of living for hours.”

“So perhaps she thinks you never heard of an idea.”