“She says you went down to Paris regularly, like her husband, on twenty-four-hour passes to see some woman, or women—”

Wilfred turns away, lifts his fist, and slams it against the wall. “I can’t, Elfriede. I can’t listen to damned Mrs. MacLeod any longer. I can’t listen to this.”

“You can’t tell me she’s lying. You can’t tell me that any man will go months and years without wanting to fuck somebody.”

“A man? What about a woman? Don’t you burn as I do? Do you think I don’t suffer, wondering whether some damned local squire’s been sniffing around—and for God’s sake, you’re the most beautiful woman alive—”

“Me! How can you say such a thing?”

“Wanting to fuck somebody. Christ, yes. Didn’t you? Yes, God knows, I wanted to fuck somebody during the course of many long months spent away from my wife. I wanted it badly. Yes, during the course of those months, I met women I might have liked to go to bed with, in another life. I daresay you’ve met a few gentlemen you fancied well enough. But in this life—my life—I met you instead, I loved you, I worshiped you, I married you, I swore to God I’d take no other women, you swore to God you’d take no other men, and so—amazing, isn’t it—I didn’t fuck somebody else, I didn’t go to bed with this or that woman I met, I went home alone and I dreamed, Elfriede, dreamed of what we’d do together when I saw you again. Christ. Christ. Some woman in Paris. And there I was an hour ago, actually sobbing, Elfriede, weeping with gratitude in your arms, because I hadn’t felt the inside of a woman in seven months, I’d spent in two minutes like a schoolboy, and I thought—I thought—don’t laugh—here’s what I thought, I was actually thanking God for this wife who understood and forgave me, who could take my passion and fling it right back at me—”

He breaks off just in time to catch Elfriede as she sinks to her knees. Her feet just can’t take the strain another instant. Her thick ankles. Wilfred supports her to the bench, a few steps behind, and crashes next to her, panting.

“I went to Paris,” he says, “but not to see a woman.”

“Then why?”

“Another reason. A bit of a secret, for the moment.”

“Oh, a secret.”

“I’ve been a beast, I know, a boor, selfish, tyrannical. Whatever you want to call me. I deserve it all. Except that. Don’t accuse me of that.”

The baby stirs. Kicks out an arm or a leg, like he’s testing the water, and Elfriede folds her hands across her stomach and stares at the glimmering shadows where the river lies.