“A journalist,” he said. “That’s all?”

“What do you mean, that’s all? What else would I be?”

The sunshine from the window slanted across his face, half alight and half in shadow. His white shirt hung from his shoulders, which were wide and bony, and while the bones were meatless they were also thick, giving him an air of authority, of trustworthiness: the kind of shoulders that could bear a great deal, could bear the weight of his troubles and yours; could bear the weight of your resting head, if you were tall enough to reach them. Then his hair, all ablaze in the sunshine. His serious eyes, oh. You could not evade scrutiny like that. You could only bear it. You could only sit there and let him take his fill, let him examine your lines and creases, your twitches and stitches, let him judge the stuff of which you were made.

“This island,” he said at last. “This damned little island. Only a few hundred square miles of barren limestone.”

The electric fan whirred above us. My arm throbbed, my head ached. I said, “When did you arrive back?”

“Two days ago.”

“You’re still staying at Wenner-Gren’s place?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s in Mexico, isn’t he? The FBI put him on a blacklist of some kind, the second we got into the war, because of his Nazi friends. He’s been stuck in Mexico since December.”

“Oh, is that what you heard?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Well, Wenner-Gren’s not a Nazi. He’s a businessman, that’s all.”

“Then why did the FBI blacklist him?”

Thorpe produced a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and removed his spectacles. “I suppose you’d have to ask the FBI. I’m just a scientist, Mrs. Randolph. My concern is plants, not people.”

“Some people, surely.”

“Oh, I don’t know. People so often disappoint one. Plants, on the other hand. They simply exist, you see. It’s up to you to discover their nature.” He replaced the glasses on his nose. “How’s the old arm feeling?”

“The old arm will be just fine.”

“All the same, I believe I’m going to sleep with you tonight.”

“You’re going to what?”

“I mean on the sofa, of course. Someone’s got to keep an eye on things.”

“The sofa? What sofa?”

Now the grin, like the rising of the sun. “In your bungalow, of course. I’m springing you out of here.”

“What?”

“I had the feeling you’re not the sort of woman who enjoys lying around in hospital beds.” He tossed the basket onto the bed. “Come along, then. If you’ve quite finished your cake. You’ll find a change of clothing in there.”

“But how—the doctors—”