And Christine was tempted for a moment to ask him, what about Alex, what do you think? Has he been faithful? Then she thought that she and Zachary had talked about Alex too much, they’d been over that old ground too many times. He was still holding onto her hand. Leaning together, each feeling the other’s warmth, they sat looking up at the ceiling – just as they might have done in all innocence half an hour ago, except that everything was changed between them, Zachary’s dissatisfaction was substantial and discomfiting as a third presence. Christine was less at ease with this new Zachary, who was jaded and more worldly; on the other hand he impressed her more and she had to reckon with his new force, insisting on himself. He hadn’t ever been beautiful but his bulk and high colour were suddenly potent like a great merchant-broker’s in a portrait. — I find I’m quite ashamed, he said, — of not having sinned, now that we’re here in Venice. It seems unworthy. You know, of the art – and of all the incitements to pleasure. The general loveliness. The present company.

She squeezed his hand, he squeezed back tightly. — We could go to the apartment and have it all to ourselves, he said then, murmuring against her hair. — The others won’t be back until mid-evening at the earliest. Weren’t they going to eat in Vicenza?

— Zach, what are you suggesting?

— You know what I’m suggesting. Why not? It’s not as if we haven’t done it already. Couldn’t that make it all right?

Christine protested, appalled, laughing: he knew it didn’t! It could never be all right, not ever.

— Then let’s be all wrong. No one need ever know.

She said anyway weren’t they too old now? And they weren’t the type.

— I find I might be the type after all, he said. — In my old age. What about you?

Carefully she tried to steady her voice, as if she were warning him – or warning herself. — But I so love our London afternoons at home. When you come round and it’s raining and I make tea, Alex is at school, we sit and talk. I never even mind that you’ve interrupted my work: you’re the only one, I’m horrible with anyone else who bothers me.

— Well exactly, I love those rainy afternoons too, very much.

— I couldn’t want anything like that to change.

— Nothing would have to change. We could go on afterwards just as we did before. We’d never mention it, even to each other: as if it hadn’t happened. Except that it would have.