He reached her. They stood at a loss for words. Then she extended a small, delicate hand and shook his briskly. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Storm,” she said.

They walked in silence together above the Thames. The gulls crying, sailing, landing. The efficient, imperial skyline of Whitehall across the way. The jagged concrete wedges of the theater complex hanging over them. Storm’s mind raced, searching for something to say. But he had only one thing to say and he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He could no more speak of his illness to her than a married man, feeling as he did, could have mentioned his wife; it would have killed the illusion of possibility.

So they strolled and he stole glances at her, watching her organize her thoughts. Then, finally, she stopped. He stopped. She looked up at him.

“I’m afraid …” she said. And all at once, she started laughing.

Bewildered, Storm smiled, waited.

She tried again. “I’m afraid I …” She covered her mouth with her hand. Her shoulders shook. She fought the laughter off. “I’m afraid I …” But it broke out again, high, musical peals. She waved quickly at the air as if to erase them. “I’m afraid …” She was overcome with laughter. She veered away from him, staggered towards the balustrade. Storm, still puzzled, still smiling dopily, scratched his head. Sophia hugged herself, giggling. Glanced her apologies at him but was laughing too hard to speak. She hid her face behind her arms, struggled to compose herself again. Lowered her arms. Said, “I’m afraid I’ve made rather a bad first impression …” But that was as far as she got. The laughter crippled her. She fell back against the balustrade, slapped the top of it. Her whole body quaked as she laughed.