Only when Maggie asked him that evening how his lunch had gone, and suggested that they should all four of them go out to dinner together, did it cross Gorham’s mind that maybe Juan’s call to him might have been prompted by her. Did his wife really think that he was in such need of cheering up? He thought he seemed perfectly happy.

That summer they took the children to Europe. They went to Florence, Rome and Pompeii. The boys seemed quite interested, but little Emma was only eight, so maybe she was a little young, though she was very patient with the long lines, which they partly avoided by getting guides. Then they went to the beach for a few days, to make up for all the forced culture. It was one of the best holidays they’d had in years.

Back in New York, Gorham made a determined effort to keep his life on an even keel. He stood for the board of the building again, and was easily elected. He didn’t much like some of the other people on the board, but that wasn’t the point. He was determined to grasp everything about the life he had and hold onto it. He made a point of taking Maggie out to dinner, just the two of them, every other week at least. Time was compartmentalized in New York. At work, naturally, there was a schedule, but he tightened up his private life as well. Twice a week he played tennis at the Town Tennis Club near Sutton Place, or in the winter months on the covered courts under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. All through the rest of that year, he felt himself to be in control of the situation. Maggie seemed happy. His home life was exemplary. As the end of the year approached, Gorham was feeling rather proud of himself. So when the next blow struck, it took him by surprise.

It was at a cocktail party the week before Christmas, and Gorham found himself talking to a pleasant fellow who told him he was a historian at Columbia. They discussed the university a little, and then Gorham asked the man what work he’d been engaged in recently.

“I’m actually on a sabbatical,” the fellow announced, “so that I can complete a book I’ve been working on for a few years. It’s about Ben Franklin in London. Sets his life there in the context of everything that was going on in science, philosophy, politics.”

“That sounds incredibly interesting.”

“I think it is.”

“Tell me more.”

“Just stop me when you’ve had enough.” The guy was about his own age, Gorham supposed. Medium height, round-faced and balding, he wore metal-rimmed glasses and a bow tie. He was friendly and unassuming, but as he talked about the world Ben Franklin had known, and the lively intellectual tradition Franklin represented, one could feel his intensity and enthusiasm. It was infectious. “Am I boring you?” he genially inquired after a few minutes.