THE PREVIOUS SPRING Marya had met a man named Eric Nichols at a conference in New York City. She told Gregory about him—as much as she knew of him—in a slow, careful voice. “Well, it can’t be said that you were unfaithful to me.” Gregory laughed. “There’s that in our favor.”

His laughter was abrupt and jarring. “I haven’t been unfaithful to anyone,” Marya said.

She was angry but her voice sounded weak. She began to cry.

“Oh no. No. Is all this for me?” Gregory said, spreading his fingers in mock amazement. “Tears? for me?”

“I haven’t been unfaithful to anyone,” Marya said.

The conference had been on the general subject of Latin American culture, held in the Americana Hotel, as it was then called, on Seventh Avenue. Though the subject had nothing to do with Marya’s academic field of specialization—though in fact it constituted a serious divergence from her specialization—Marya had lately found herself intensely interested in Latin America; she was studying Spanish and Portuguese, rather unwisely at the same time. Eric Nichols, the editor of The Meridian, was on a large and combative panel that addressed itself to the question of whether Latin American culture had a future, or only a highly interesting past. It was the first panel Marya had ever attended at which people spoke loudly, passionately, even furiously; she was accustomed to conferences on English and American literature at which no one ever raised a voice.

Of course Marya was acquainted with Eric Nichols, indirectly: he had published several articles of hers in his journal, he’d assigned her a dozen books to review, but they had never met before. Nichols was younger than Marya might have thought, in his early forties, perhaps, with a quizzical lined face, heavy graying eyebrows, an attractive dark-skinned pallor. Nichols’ voice was the quietest but the most persistent voice on the panel; he couldn’t be goaded into losing his temper. Marya thought, watching him, Oh yes. Yes. Him.

Afterward she introduced herself to him and they shook hands rather shyly, staring, smiling. Marya murmured a foolish little observation—that he didn’t look at all the way she expected. Nichols, laughing, delighted, said that Marya looked exactly as he had expected “Marya Knauer” might look.