“Please, Adam. We’re almost there.”

“Swear a sexy oath.”

“On your thing.”

On Phillips Street they walked halfway down the block and then stopped in front of a four-story apartment building with cracked stucco walls. “Watch these steps,” she said, indicating the walk-down entrance.

“Suicidal,” he muttered. The concrete stairs were covered with three inches of scarred ice, over which they moved gingerly. At the bottom she took a key from her pocket and opened the door.

The single window allowed very little light into the room. “Wait a minute,” she said hurriedly, and turned on all three of the lamps.

It was a studio room. The wallpaper had been painted a brown that was too dark for the limited illumination. Under the dust the floor was brick-colored asphalt tile, cracked in spots. There was a fairly-new couch that undoubtedly opened into a bed, one over-stuffed chair in faded damask and another chair that had been rescued from a set of wicker porch furniture.

She took off her mitten and bit the back of her thumb. He had discovered it to be a characteristic gesture, used when she was tense. “Well, what do you think?”

He removed her hand from her mouth. “What do I think about what?”

“I told the landlady I’d let her know by 10 o’clock about renting it.”

“It’s a cellar.”

“A basement.”

“Even the floor is dirty.”

“I’ll scrub it and wax it until it gleams.”

“Gaby, are you serious? It’s not as nice as your place in Cambridge. Not nearly.”

“In addition to this bedroom-living room combination there’s a bathroom and a kitchenette. Take a look.”

“You can’t tell me Susan Haskell is going to like this better than the other place.”

“Susan Haskell isn’t going to live here.”

He thought about that for a moment. “She isn’t?”

“We are. You and I.”

They stood and looked at one another. “It’s seventy-five dollars a month. I think it’s a bargain, Adam,” she said.

“Oh, that is,” he said. “It really is.”

He put his arms around her.

“Gaby, are you sure this is what you want?”

“I’m positive. Unless you don’t want it.”

“I’ll paint the walls,” he said in a little while.

“They’re ugly, but it’s a fantastic location. The elevated station is only a couple of blocks away,” she said. “So is the Charles Street Jail. And the landlady told me that in just three minutes you can walk from here to the apartment on Bowdoin Street where Jack Kennedy used to live.”

He kissed her cheek and found it was wet. “That will be convenient,” he said.