But he did. “Mabel Cannon,” he said, his fingers clacking a few last words.

She couldn’t help it. She swooped to him and put her arms around his neck.

“You remember,” she said in his ear. She could feel him laughing. She snuffled. “Just think,” he said back to her, “what everyone watching is thinking.” She unclamped him, and they turned to smile at each other.

“It’s always been a stage, hasn’t it?” she said, motioning to the Room.

“Yes, but one whose spotlight has yet to find me,” Stanley said. “Until now.”

“How have you been?” She really wanted to know. But the words weren’t out before she felt the gully between them and wished she hadn’t asked.

“Mabel, I’ve been terrible,” he said, fixing her unease.

They laughed again. And he added, “You too?”

“How did you know!?”

“I have instincts,” Stanley said. “If nothing else.”

For a few more moments, they were silent, just smiling at each other. Items pouring through their heads were too different in color and shape to seem similar. They were fundamentally the same, nonetheless. She felt it.

“Do you take a drink now and then?” she asked. Maybe he would make this second gambit feel natural as well.

“I do. Smoking still too, I’m afraid.”

She crouched quickly, removed the painful high heels, and said, “Here.” She scribbled her mobile number on a paper she pulled from the trash can under his desk. “I’m around tomorrow and the next day and the next day. I want to talk, really talk. Stanley, it’s, well …” she almost forgot what her convictions were. “We’re old enough to do this!” She whispered this conspiratorially, energetically. His eyes crinkled, and he cocked his head.

“We are,” he said. “I will call you.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“Okay, then,” she said, reluctantly standing up again, toes slowly finding the infernal shoes.

On the way out, she passed the place where the receptionist used to sit. This was their den mother back before voice or e-mail. Mabel remembered confessing to her that she had a crush on Don. The day was right there, it was April, the first new hyacinths out, he had definitely smiled at her in the elevator for no reason, and Mabel had floated into the Room in a buttercup of a dress, drifting to the receptionist’s counter for telephone messages, and Treena had looked over the tops of her tortoiseshell glasses and guessed—somebody’s in love. Mabel had gushed awful, stupid longing to her until the next message retriever appeared—Don. Of course—he was right with her on the elevator. But someone had stopped him to talk. Now here he was. Mabel saw his hand reach into her line of vision to pull out his stack of messages. How long had he been standing there? Had he heard? Mabel could still feel how he had touched her elbow. He guided her, his palm on the small of her back, away from Treena, into the Room. Thinking about it, she remembered. There was such a thing as a princess.