As always, she followed the path she had taken with Howard, and at the point where they had abandoned the walk she turned back. In the gray distance, a figure emerged from the mist, a smudge of hat and coat. It was not so much the silhouette she recognized but his walk, as unique as a fingerprint, and she stopped, fixed to the spot until he raised a hand in greeting, and only then hurried toward him.

“I went to the office. Your colleague said you’d gone for a walk, so I guessed it might be here.”

“Why aren’t you at work?” Idiotic that this, of all possible questions, was the first to spring to her mind.

“I wanted to see you and I couldn’t wait, so I closed the shop. You can do that, you know, when you’re the shopkeeper.”

They had stopped about a yard apart on the path, hands in pockets, uncertain what kind of greeting was allowed.

“How are you? How’s Gretchen?”

“I don’t know about Gretchen. I’ve been miserable. Your letter just about finished me off.”

Hope, that treacherous friend, began its jabs and whispers.

“It finished me off to write it.”

“I’ve thought and thought about what you said, and I’ve tried to see how it could work, because I know you are good and wise, but I can’t do it. I can’t give you up.”

Jean felt joy flowing through her veins, unfreezing her blood. She had tried to be brave and do the good and decent thing, but she couldn’t do it for both of them.

“I thought I could. But it’s been awful. Worse than I ever imagined.”

He pulled her toward him and they clutched each other almost fearfully, it seemed to Jean, as though unseen hands would otherwise pry them apart. But he was solid as a tree; strong enough to withstand anything.

“I drove past your house a couple of times, just in the hope of seeing you at the window.”

“I was going to be so strong and dignified, but I’ve been a wreck.”

“All this unhappiness for nothing.” He kissed her lips, four, five, six times, until she pulled away, laughing.

“Did you speak to Gretchen?”

“Yes, we talked for a long time. I feel for her, but it’s nonsense to think we can ‘patch things up’ as if a marriage is just a torn pair of trousers. I couldn’t touch her and she couldn’t touch me.”

“What about Margaret?”

“Even if there were a hundred Margarets, it would never work.”

“It used to work well enough until Gretchen left.”

She wished she could stop arguing against her own interests, but she couldn’t be sure until she had heard her case demolished, point by point.

“Yes, and if she hadn’t, I would never have left her. I would have kept my feelings for you in a sealed box and so would you. But she did, and that released me, and now that I’ve experienced real love—passion—with you, I can’t go back. Do you see the difference?”