Ethel Grandin was at a loss to understand what was happening—oh, not to herself, but to her husband. He seemed to be changing under her very eyes. The least thing said now, and he was gone from her; it would be a long time before she would forget how he had suddenly disappeared in the fog, ignoring her pleas for him to come back. Formerly, even when he was preoccupied with himself or with his work, he had been the most sympathetic of husbands. What had become of that man she had loved? It was as if someone else had arrived on the island in his place; a stranger.

Their difficulties since they came to Sconset had been her fault. Though she could not forgive herself for the way she had turned on him the first night, she hadn’t been able to prevent it, either: it had had to come, better then than never. But nothing was good enough. He had either ceased to love her entirely, or what small love still existed between them mattered nothing to him.

Was it overwork? Was it the new book just finished or the likelihood of more intensive work this fall? Was it possibly the prospect of summer school? Would a whole summer off, a summer at home, help any—a summer away from her? For he seemed to be himself with others; it was only when they were alone together that he became alien and strange. She had threatened to go home to Maine and stay there till she had made up her mind what she must do about their marriage; and the one weak thing she was guilty of was not to have gone. It was proving a constant humiliation to stay for the rest of the two weeks with him in Sconset. What unreasonable stubbornness had impelled her even to think of it? In the face of their estrangement, the anomalous position she had placed herself in by staying on here had become intolerable. She was surprised it had not occurred to her before. She made her decision; and at once began to feel better for it. She turned from the window, determined to leave the island as soon as it was possible to get a boat to the mainland.

As far as she recalled, there were two boats a day to Woods Hole, one in the early morning, one shortly after noon. But she could not find a timetable in her purse, on the dresser, or in the dresser drawer. Perhaps her husband had one in his suitcase. She got down on her knees, pulled the bag out from under his bed, and opened it.

In the top layer, flat as a necktie and looking brand new, was a khaki overseas cap adorned with a pair of silver bars. She looked at the cap for a long moment, puzzled.