He didn’t answer her for a moment, staring down at his hands and then out the window at Washington Square. Then he shrugged. “It’s a nice day out there. Maybe even the first proper day of spring. Shall we take the streetcar up to Central Park, join the other Sunday strollers?”

In other words, Margaret thought, I know you don’t want to talk about it, so I won’t push it. She was so relieved she almost agreed, but another horrible realisation prevented her. Whether they talked now or in a month’s time or in six months, she wouldn’t feel any different. “No, wait.”

Randolph had half got to his feet, but now he sank back down onto the window seat, not saying anything but watching her. What was wrong with her! They were best friends. They respected each other; they had an instinctive understanding of each other that meant their occasional differences never turned into arguments. She was unlikely to meet another man who seemed such a perfect match, and now that Donald was married—but, no, she would not compare Randolph to Donald: that would be quite unfair to both of them.

Though wasn’t that the root of the problem? Randolph wasn’t Donald. Sadly, Margaret recalled Marion saying something similar about Patrick not being Alexander. If Donald was her ideal, then Randolph was doomed to come up short in comparison. The kisses they shared were delightful, but they had never stirred her to the passionate heights of Donald’s kisses. Randolph made her laugh, she thoroughly enjoyed his company, he made her feel comfortable.

Oh no! Oh, M.! She did love him, but as a friend, and far too much to hurt him. Rejoining him on the window seat, she angled herself to face him. “I have to be painfully honest with you—it’s the least you deserve. You are my best friend, Randolph. I don’t want that to change.”

“Yeah! That’s the problem, isn’t it? We haven’t really been able to move beyond being friends.”

“Oh!”

“You thought it was only you?” He shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, there have been times when I could happily persuade myself—because logically we’re perfect for each other.”

“We are!” Margaret said fervently. “That’s what I don’t understand.”

“I guess love isn’t logical.”

“Perhaps that’s a good thing.” Giddy with relief, Margaret took his hand. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I haven’t allowed myself to think about it until just a moment ago, and when I did—” She broke off, for there was a lump in her throat. “I should have spoken up earlier. It was wrong of me to kiss you when I knew—though I didn’t know, or I wasn’t sure. Oh, Randolph . . .”