He was nervous yet keenly excited; Marya sensed his sexual agitation. Behind them, parked along the graveled drive, were lovers’ cars, one after another; from this distance, the car in which Imogene and her “date” were pawing at each other was undistinguishable from the others.

“You might not approve,” Matthew said, his voice edged now with an air of authority, “but Imogene is a free soul, she does what she wants, I don’t suppose she actually lies to her fiancé. He’d have to allow her some freedom, you know, or she’d break off the engagement.”

“You know a lot about her,” Marya said.

“Imogene is a close friend of mine, we’ve worked together . . . I was stage manager for Hedda Gabler, don’t you remember?”

“It’s all so . . . trivial,” Marya said slowly. “So degrading.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh—this.”

“This?”

Marya indicated the cars parked along the drive. Her expression was contemptuous.

“You take an awfully superior attitude, don’t you,” Matthew said, with an attempt at jocular irony. He tightened his arm around her shoulders; he drew nearer. Marya could hear his quickened breathing.

Is this idiot really going to kiss me? Marya wondered. Her heart was still beating heavily; she could see Imogene’s profile, the cameo-clear outline of her face, illuminated for an instant as the headlights were extinguished. Then she moved into the young man’s embrace, she kissed him, slid her arms around his neck. . . .

“Does she make love with them?” Marya asked.

“Them?”

“Different boys. Men. One week after another.”

“I don’t know,” Matthew said resentfully. “I suppose so—if she wants to.”

“I thought you were in love with her,” Marya said mockingly.

“We’re just friends,” Matthew said, offended.

“Oh no,” said Marya, “everyone knows you’re in love with her.”

Matthew drew away from Marya and walked beside her without speaking. There was nothing for them to do, suddenly; not a thing left to say. It was still March and quite cold. Their footsteps sounded dully on the crusted snow. Marya thought, The various ways we seek out our humiliations. . . .

After a few minutes Matthew said something conciliatory about the night, the stars, the city lights, “infinity,” certain remarks of Pascal’s; but Marya made no effort to listen. She kept seeing Imogene kissing that near-stranger, Imogene locking her arms about his neck as if he mattered. As if they were lovers.

She was going to observe aloud, cynically, that making love was as good a way as any of passing the time, if you hadn’t anything better to do, when Matthew, brave Matthew, turned her and took hold of her shoulders and tried to kiss her. It was a desperate gesture—his breath smelled of sweet red wine—but Marya would have none of it. She shoved him roughly in the chest.

“Marya, for Christ’s sake grow up,” Matthew said angrily. “You’re a big girl now—”