This time, two years ago, that hot August. The day in the office when
everything went wrong all at once and the clicking of her typewriter
maddened him and he sent her out of his room.

The day when he kept her over-time. The others had gone and they were
there by themselves, the big man in his big room and she in her den, the
door open between. Suddenly she saw him standing in the doorway, looking
at her. She knew then. She could feel the blood rushing in her brain; the
stabbing click of the typewriter set up little whirling currents that
swamped her thoughts.

Her wet fingers kept slipping from the keys. He came and took her in his
arms. She lay back in his arms, crying. Crying because she was happy,
because she knew.

She remembered now what he had said then. "You must have known. You must
have thought of me. You must have wanted me to take you in my arms." And
her answer. "No. I didn't. I didn't think of it."

And his smile. His unbelieving smile. He thought she was lying. He always
thought people were lying. Women. He thought women always lied about what
they wanted.

The first time. In her Bloomsbury room, one evening, and the compact they
made then, sitting on the edge of the sofa, like children, holding each
other's hands and swearing never to go back on it, never to go back on
themselves or on each other. If it ever had to end, a clean cut. No going
back on that either.