“She’s a remarkably pretty girl.” Her tone as she uttered these words was as if she had said, She’s thirty-­five if she’s a day.

Good lord, he thought, can she possibly think I’m interested in Miss Cowles—a professor-­and-­student infatuation? But no, that would be too preposterous. Ethel knew better than to believe such a thing; just as he, to do her justice, knew better than to believe she had.

“All right, Ethel.”

“Hm?”

“I said all right. Let’s get it over with.”

As if in preparation for what was to come, she opened her bag and took out a Kleenex. “Well, there isn’t much to say.” Her voice was strained and tight; this was costing almost more effort than she could manage. “Except that I’ve had a lot of time to think of things, this past week.”

“What on earth can you possibly mean by that?”

“Well, that’s all.”

“Now look—” he said; but his heart was sinking fast. “You’re just tired.”

“I certainly am . . .”

He watched her blinking to keep back the tears. There wasn’t, as Ethel had said, much to say; certainly, now, everything had been said. But if he left it at that, he was lost.

“How long do you expect to keep this up?”

“I’m not keeping anything up,” she said.

“How long is this supposed to go on, then?”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Very well! If you won’t tell me what’s on your mind, I can’t do anything about it. I’m no clairvoyant, you know.” There was no answer. “Do you want me to take the next boat back?”

“I don’t care what you do.”

“You can’t mean that,” he said.

“Why can’t I?”

“I’ve called your bluff before and you know what always happens.”

“What happens?”

“You collapse in tears, or come running after me begging me to come back—”

“John, not now! I— Please . . .”

“Why not now? Why wait, why prolong it? I want to know what the trouble is!”

“I— Please, John.” The tears came. “Give me your handkerchief . . .”

“You’ve got your Kleenex.”

His impulse was to get up and go. He had to be by himself, take a walk around the deck, clear his mind. His chest was hot; though his mouth was tight shut, he could hear himself breathing; his hands trembled as he lighted a cigarette. With an effort he waited for the Haumans to return.

They sauntered across the deck after the boat was well underway. Hauman held his wife’s chair while she sat down.

“Mrs. Grandin,” she said, “you’ve been crying.”

“Crying? No. . . . No, I guess it’s just the wind.”

Grandin stood up. “I think I’ll take a look around the boat. Will you excuse me, Ethel?”

“Certainly, John.”

Hauman half rose to his feet. “Shall I come with you, sir?”