It’s the Greenoughs’ dog, he said and heaved himself up. Digging up my bulbs.

Lilian said, I’m sure it’s just —

Gilbert went over to the french doors and stared into the night. He rattled the handle and opened it. Scat, he called. Go home. His voice did not carry far in the wind.

It’s probably just a raccoon, or a —

Gilbert turned his head around. I don’t care what it is, Lily, I just want it to get out of my garden and leave me alone.

It happened a few nights out of a month that Gilbert made the mistake of having one cocktail too many before dinner, or having that extra nightcap afterwards, and he would become rather piffed. Sometimes he even got a little nasty, snapping at her, but she knew it was the alcohol and therefore not his fault. She learned not to blame him. It was more difficult when he stopped making sense altogether which happened sometimes — not frequently, but it did happen. She recognized the signs: his face took on a reddish cast, blooming from within, and his eyes got a hooded puffiness so that when they turned their gaze to you there was some question of their actually seeing you or not.

Gilbert, back in his chair, looked at Lilian in this way.

The book in her lap was a love story, not something she usually read, preferring mysteries or Wodehouse or history, and if she hadn’t been reading this the thought would probably not have occurred to her. She didn’t spend time thinking about love, but the story made her wonder. It was about a man who loves a woman despite their separation and, more remarkably, without her returning his love or even knowing of the sacrifices and efforts he makes on her account — protecting her husband in battle, seeing her children are safe, saving her from bankruptcy.

During their brief romance the man had been entranced by every aspect of the woman — the way she patted her hair, how she served a picnic, the sound of her laugh, the way she closed her eyes after seeing something beautiful. One wondered, after all this, if it were not the woman, but instead the man who conjured this sort of love.

She looked across at Gilbert. His eyes were making a supreme effort to focus.

You all right? she said.

His pickled face gathered into a frown. Course I’m all right, he said.