“Not with me. I was going to ask you the same thing,” said Jean. “You missed your appointment with Dr. Bamber; he wrote me a rather peevish letter when you didn’t reply to him.”

Gretchen shook her head impatiently. “Well, I couldn’t make that date. Margaret was still a bit off color from that sickness. I thought I’d told Howard to phone and cancel it, but perhaps I didn’t. Anyway, I don’t understand why they couldn’t use the blood from the first tests.”

“Well, I gather this electro . . . whatever it’s called . . . is quite elaborate to run. You have to fast overnight and the blood needs to be analyzed within a day of sampling. I don’t understand the exact process, but . . .” She tailed off. This is what you signed up for, she wanted to add. You approached us, not the other way around. Instead, she shrugged. “I was worried that something might have happened to change your mind about the whole business.”

“No, no, nothing’s happened. I’m just tired of being poked and prodded and not believed. It’s all taking so long.”

Jean felt a rising impatience. She bit down on a number of sharp retorts. There was nothing to be gained by growing irritable and everything to be lost. She needed Gretchen’s cooperation far more than Gretchen needed her.

“Look, I know this is difficult for you,” she said, mastering the temptation to expound upon her own frustrations. “If there is any way I can make things easier for you, please tell me. You know I believe in you, Gretchen. And for what it’s worth I think Dr. Bamber does, too. But science has no business with beliefs. There are only two more stages left now—this serum test and a skin graft. And then it’s done.”

“All right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be an awkward patient. I’m grateful for all the trouble you’ve gone to.”

“There’s no need for gratitude,” Jean replied crisply. “We’re all on the same side.”

Low, rolling clouds were gathering and a few fat drops of rain hit the pavement between them. Jean wondered if Gretchen would invite her back to the house so that they could conclude their discussion inside, but she showed no sign of it.

“Phone Howard and tell him when the next appointment is and we’ll be there,” she promised, lifting the back of her cardigan up over her head to protect her hair.

“I can tell you now,” said Jean, bridling at the high-handed way Gretchen treated Howard as her secretary. “This Friday morning. I’ll meet you at Charing Cross at nine. Don’t eat or drink anything except water overnight.”

The matter settled, they parted, the rain coming down in earnest now. Gretchen ran back up the road with her arms over her head, while Jean trudged to the bus stop with a vague sense of dissatisfaction that had almost nothing to do with her having set off that morning without an umbrella.