“Yes.” He changed a bill at the desk and went to the telephone booth. He turned the crank in the side of the box and gave the number and town. He heard the operators, with identical voices, at Woods Hole, Boston, Old Orchard; it seemed strange being connected with the mainland again. Then he heard his mother-­in-­law’s voice. “Just a moment, Mother,” he said. “Call the boys, will you? Here’s Ethel.” He beckoned through the glass door, and quitted the booth.

Ethel emerged. “Didn’t you want to talk?”

“There was nothing to say, specially. Everything all right? Are they well—having a good time?”

“Mama says Ted was in the water for three hours. I suppose that’s all right, though,” she added uncertainly.

He dawdled in the bathroom. For a moment or two he considered shaving tonight so he wouldn’t have to shave in the morning; then decided against it because it would throw his schedule all off and he’d have to be shaving nights instead of mornings from now on unless he skipped a day to get back to the morning routine again; then realized that the question had not been serious for a moment: he was unconsciously planning or trying any dodge to stall off what awaited him when he faced Ethel alone in the bedroom.

He couldn’t have another row tonight. On the other hand, he couldn’t ignore the issue as if it didn’t exist, either. He loved Ethel; he had missed her keenly all day; he longed to get back to her again. He did not dare hope that they would end up in bed together tonight and certainly he wouldn’t try to; not after last night. But something had to be said or done to re-­establish him as her husband. Ten years didn’t count for nothing. There had been so much between them; they were not, and never had been, strangers. He leaned on the washbowl and gazed unseeingly into the mirror, asking himself for courage.

When he came from the bathroom in his pajamas, Ethel was in bed reading a magazine.

Almost before he had time to think, he found himself saying what he had not meant to say at all. “What about it, Ethel? Don’t you think you’ve carried this on long enough?”

She regarded him for a full moment over the edge of the magazine. Then she said: “I’m terribly sorry about last night, John, terribly. But I—I—”

“You don’t need to be sorry.”

“But I want you to remember something. I love you, John. I always have loved you and always will.”

“Isn’t it a little late for all this?”

“Why?”

“You told me what you thought of me. I’d feel like a fool or hypocrite or pretender if I tried to make myself out as something more than the complete nothing you’ve made of me . . .”