Thomas slapped his enormous forehead. “A Matter of Taste. Of course. I should have realized that from the way you described it. I assume that one’s back in print?”

“I’ll check for you. So . . . Jane isn’t a dog lover?”

Thomas brightened at this offer of more familiar turf. “Oh, don’t let her kid you. She loves all animals, even me. Just not in the house. “This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals.’”

Desmond supposed he was quoting something from Whitman, but now he felt less obliged to go out on a limb by risking a guess. Come to think of it, Miller probably hadn’t read half of what he spouted but sat at home nights memorizing Bartlett’s. At least Desmond wouldn’t have to go through the charade of praising Miller for his Melville tome. “You said there was something you’ve been meaning to ask me?”

Thomas started to cross his legs, then reached down to help pull one ankle across his knee. “About Jane, actually. When I told her about your book, she went out and read it and was crazy about it. She’s a producer at one of our public TV stations. She’s been after me to invite you out to the house for dinner.” Thomas leaned toward Desmond as if he were about to offer him an unlisted phone number. “She thinks the two of you might be able to work on a project together.”

“Oh? What sort of project?”

Thomas lifted his shoulders to his ears and his chin disappeared into his neck. “I’m not clear. A documentary series of some kind. Biographies. She’ll give you the specifics. She’s always got something up her sleeve.”

Despite everything in his experience that had taught him to view even solid offers of this type warily, Desmond felt lifted by merely having his name mentioned in the same sentence with television. Even public television. What a horribly shallow person I am, he thought; but suddenly the walls of Deerforth College seemed a fraction less confining. He’d have to mention to his class this afternoon that he was working on a TV project even though he didn’t know what it was and wasn’t yet working on anything.

“I suppose you know a lot of people in Boston,” Thomas said.

“Not really. No one, in fact. I’m working on a new book,” Desmond said, “so I’m more or less looking forward to the solitude.”

“‘Solitude is to genius the stern friend,’” Thomas quoted.

“Mmm. True. Whitman?”

“Emerson. I’ll let you know about a date for the dinner.”

3.