“Everything’s fine,” he’d snapped.

“No it isn’t, Gorham. Don’t say that. You’re not in good shape.”

“Thank you so much.”

“I just want to help, honey.”

“In what way?”

“I just don’t think you like what you do any more.”

“And?”

“With what you’ve already saved, your stock and all that, plus what I make now, we really don’t have to worry. You could quit if you want to and do something you really liked. You’re a wonderful husband and a great father. We could have a perfect family life if you were just doing something that made you happy.”

“You’re telling me to retire?”

“No, I’m just saying why not do something you enjoy? The money isn’t a problem.”

So that was it. She didn’t even need his income any more. He’d watched Maggie with admiration as she organized her career, the household, the kids’ play dates, everything. Now it seemed she was planning to organize him as well. The final indignity. First he’d failed. Now he was going to be neutered.

“Go to hell,” he’d said.

“That’s not a fair response.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting. You run your life, I’ll run mine.”

“We share our lives, Gorham.”

“Some things we share, some things we don’t. Get used to it.”

They hadn’t spoken any more that night.

In Gorham’s experience, at any dinner party, there was usually one thing somebody said that stuck in your mind afterward. This evening, it was Maeve O’Sullivan who provided it.

Gorham admired Maeve. By day she managed money, and did it brilliantly, but she didn’t find it satisfied her intellect. She spoke four languages. She played the piano seriously well. And she read books. Lots of them.

They were discussing the long hours the young kids worked in the Financial District.

“You know,” Maeve said, “I was reading Virginia Woolf the other day, and she remarked that at one period of her life, she was able to get so much done because she had three uninterrupted hours to work in every day. And I thought, what on earth is she talking about? Only three hours a day? And then I looked around the office at all the people working their fourteen-hour days, and I thought, how many of you actually spend three hours in real, creative, intellectual activity in a day? And I reckoned, probably not one.” She smiled. “And there’s Virginia Woolf achieving more than they ever will in their lives, on three hours a day. It makes you think. They might do better if they worked less.”

“Mind you, she killed herself,” said John Vorpal, and everybody laughed.

But Maeve was right, all the same. It was something to think about.

The evening ended pleasantly, and one could tell the guests had enjoyed themselves. As he said good-bye to the last of them and went back into the living room to face John Vorpal, Gorham felt almost friendly toward him. There was just Vorpal—his wife had gone back to their apartment.