Mirrors ran the length of the bathroom in panels. In each mirror a wraithlike figure in a shapeless gown, like a shroud, stared at Abigail, aghast.

Then she saw, the bathroom had a second door that might lead into another bedroom or into a hallway, but when she seized the doorknob to turn it, she discovered that the door was locked.

She could have sobbed. The doorknob had turned in a normal way but to no avail, the door was locked.

Stumbling back into the bedroom, Abigail saw to her astonishment that a stranger had entered the room in her absence. At first she could not see his face clearly—it was blurred, like a smudged thumb. He must have unlocked the door—the door with the broken doorknob—for there appeared to be no other way into the room. And what was he carrying?—a heavy cut-glass vase of dazzling white flowers that exuded a pungent fragrance. Gardenias.

Flowers for the invalid!—for her.

“Why, darling! What are you doing out of bed?”

He was startled, alarmed. Genuine concern for her, an undercurrent of dismay and exasperation.

“And your feet—bare.”

Abigail was sure she’d never seen this man before. He had thick white gnarled-looking hair, a low forehead, and a broad, flushed face; he wore a dark pin-striped suit that fitted his stocky figure somewhat tightly, a white shirt and necktie, polished dress shoes. Indeed, he’d brought the bouquet of white flowers for Abigail, setting the vase on a bedside table.

How powerful, the sickly sweet smell of gardenias! Abigail felt dizzy, dazed, as if ether had been released into the airless room.

Stunned speechless as the stranger addressed her worriedly: “Please go back to bed, darling. D’you want to catch pneumonia again? Next time might be fatal. And what if you’d fallen when no one was here!”

“But I—I—I don’t belong here …”

“Bare feet! For God’s sake.”

He would have led Abigail forcibly back to the bed, but she shrank from him, rebuffing his hands, preparing to scream if he touched her—but he did not touch her; instead, unexpectedly, he shrugged and turned aside, as if Abigail’s behavior had offended him.

“Ah, well. It’s just good that I’ve come home. I never know what—what in bloody hell—I will discover.”

He laughed, harshly. Clearly he was disgusted. But he was dismayed. Yanking off his necktie and hanging it in a closet on a rack of other ties. Abigail could see that these were expensive designer ties. His back to her, oblivious of her, matter-of-factly he removed his suit coat and hung it carefully in the closet; removed his white dress shirt, his trousers, and his shoes to change into more comfortable attire—red plaid woolen shirt, khaki trousers, moccasins.

A heavy sigh—“Jesus Christ. I never know.”

Abigail stood staring, astonished. This stranger was changing his clothes before her eyes with the casual disdain of a husband. Almost, she was moved to apologize, for clearly there was a profound misunderstanding between them.