One by one, she lifts the discarded garments and carries them to the wardrobe. Hangs them in place and selects a dress of rose-colored silk for luncheon, which she slides on over her corset and petticoat. The buttons go down her back, impossible to reach them all, so she fastens as many as she can and sits in the chair before the escritoire.

“Come in,” she says.

Enter Nurse, in the same high-necked dress of dark green wool as this morning. Nurses don’t change clothes in the middle of the day. She walks to the center of the rug, in the center of the room, and folds her hands. “I’ve come to tender my resignation.”

“Your resignation?”

“Yes, Frau. I can no longer—can no longer—” She pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabs swiftly at her eyes, which are already red.

Elfriede stares at her in amazement.

“Why, whatever’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“No, Frau. I simply can’t stay, that’s all.”

“Why not? Is it me? Can’t you bear to share him with me? Because I assure you—”

“Share him? Share him?” Poor Nurse is properly crying now, mopping away at her eyes.

Elfriede forgets her buttons and springs from the chair. “You mustn’t, Nurse. You mustn’t. I’m not a bit jealous. We’ll love him together.”

“Oh . . . oh . . .”

“Sit down. Come.” Elfriede leads her to the divan and makes her sit. “I’ll ring for coffee. Milk? Would you rather have—”

“Stop it. Stop it. You’re murdering me.”

“Murdering—”

“I’m pregnant!”

Everything stops, the beat of the universe. The air, the sunlight crystallize in the room. Elfriede’s mouth hangs half-open, in the act of saying the rest of her sentence, whatever it might have been. She never will remember.

“I’m with child,” Nurse says, more calmly. For some reason, the truth stops her tears, at least for the moment. She makes a last few dabs at her eyes and cheeks and slips the handkerchief back into her sleeve.

Elfriede must say something, of course. But what?

“I suppose,” she says, quite slow, “I suppose I need not ask whose child.”

“You see why I have tendered my resignation.”

“Yes, I see.” Elfriede stares at her hands, clasped at her waist. Strangely, they’ve stopped trembling. Her stomach has righted itself. Her head’s not dizzy anymore. She feels a little like she’s in a tunnel, that’s all, as if the sights and sounds of the room are just echoes of themselves, distant and not quite real. Gerhard and Nurse. Dear me. And then, poor Gerhard. He must have been so lonely. Forgive me, forgive me, he cried in the summerhouse, shedding tears of remorse on her hands. Now she understands. “How much time?” she finds herself asking.

“Since Christmas. I did try to be careful, Frau, but sometimes I couldn’t—”

“I mean how much time until the baby’s born.”