“That’s all right,” he replied. “Neither am I. We shall have to make do with big talk, or no talk at all.”

This seemed to break the spell of awkwardness and they exchanged a smile of relief before turning back to face the road ahead.

“Your wife is very unselfish,” Jean said. “Most women would have been bitterly disappointed to miss a day out like this.”

“Yes. Gretchen’s a very uncomplaining sort. And she’d do anything for Margaret, of course. She’s what you call ‘a devoted mother.’”

“Did you ever think of having more children?” Jean asked. “You seem to be making such a good job of parenthood.”

If it was an impertinent question, Howard gave no sign of taking offense.

“At one time,” he replied. “In the early days we thought it might be nice for Margaret to have a brother or sister. And I think Gretchen assumed I would want a child of my own, so to speak. That was never a concern for me—I feel Margaret is as much mine as any child could be.”

“Of course.”

“But it didn’t happen. And somehow Gretchen wasn’t surprised. I don’t think she ever really believed she could have a child in the normal way.”

“She’s still young enough,” said Jean. “She’s not even thirty.”

“But I’m not,” said Howard. “And Margaret is too old now for a new baby to be much of a playmate.”

“I suppose so.”

“And in any case, it couldn’t happen now,” Howard said. His voice was barely audible above the noise of the engine.

“Oh.” Jean remembered the single beds and the gap between them—close enough for hand-holding, but no more—and blushed.

“Gretchen and I haven’t had that kind of relationship for some years now.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. You always look like a perfect couple to me.”

“Is there such a thing? I doubt it. But yes, we get along very well in our way.”

“Gretchen is absolutely devoted to you,” Jean insisted.

“Has she said so?”

“She doesn’t need to—it’s perfectly obvious.”

She realized as she said this that it wouldn’t do. What could she really know of Gretchen’s feelings, when she could hardly bear to interrogate her own?

“I don’t doubt that she loves me—like a brother, or a favorite uncle.”

“Oh, more than that, surely!”

“Perhaps I’m exaggerating, but only a little. Not like a wife, anyway.”

“Some men might take that as a license to stray.”

“No doubt. But it would be shabby behavior, in my view.”

“In any case, who can know what other wives are like? Or husbands, for that matter. Your . . . arrangement may not be unusual.”

“You are very wise, Jean, but I sincerely hope you are wrong in this instance.”

“Why?”

“Having experienced a proper marriage—if you’ll allow that there is such a thing—at the beginning, I can only say that it would be a great pity if many people had to settle for what is a pale imitation.”