The fog seemed to lift, the moonlight began to shine brighter around him; but as the atmosphere seemed about to clear itself enough to show him where he was, it closed again, as if pressed from behind by gusts of night wind. He was wrapped in a thick murk, impenetrable but somehow soothing—except for the large looming figures he seemed constantly to see in his path and whom he kept stepping aside to avoid, only to discover, as he passed, that no one was there at all. Notwithstanding the illusory forms lurking always just ahead of him, he was alone in the enveloping fog. . . .

Ethel Cameron worked in the library at the university. Apart from seeing her there, he met her several times at the home of a fellow instructor. She was twenty-three, not at all vivid or provocative in a sexual way, yet pretty, with a perfect figure and a straight proud bearing. Her modesty and reticence attracted him; it seemed to bespeak a person worth knowing. Because it was the turning point in his life, he would never forget the first time he had asked her to dine with him, at a small Italian restaurant in the Village. He felt very good with Ethel Cameron facing him across the little table, with the fine Chianti, and with the waiter making a fuss over them as if they were lovers; and suddenly he said, impulsively (because he was happy at the moment and she was so attentive, as if he were the most interesting man she had ever been out with): “You know, Ethel? If I were the marrying kind, you’re the sort of girl I would like to marry.” “Why John, I—” “Though I don’t know why I say ‘sort,’ ” he went on, “for there can’t be many others like you in this world.” “John, that’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever had,” she said; “I’m terribly grateful and pleased. But of course we know it’ll never happen.” “Why not?” “Well, as you yourself said, you—you’re not the marrying kind. . . .” “No, I suppose not. . . .” Though denied, it had yet declared itself. That same evening when he sat on her living-­room couch—the very moment he sat down beside her and felt her close to him, though he had often sat with her before on other people’s sofas—he felt for the first time a small hot sensation plunge downward from his chest, the sensation of desire. Within a week he was making love to her; and before the month was out, they had gone to bed together. From then on he was tied, or sunk, or ecstatically happy about the prospect of marriage, he couldn’t decide which—and indeed he had not been able to make up his mind till after they were married.