PARTISAN REVIEW
233
the expression she had seen in that charcoal drawing. Did he see
her
like that, then? - girlish and withdrawn and patrician? She felt the
weight of his interest
in
her, a force that fell upon her like a blow. A
repeated blow. Of course he
was
married, he had children - of course
she was married, permanently married. This flight from her husband
was not important. She
had
left
him
before,
to
be alone, it
was
not
important. Everything in her
was
slender and delicate and not important.
They walked for hours after dinner, looking at the other strollers,
the weekend visitors, the tourists, the couples like themselves. Surely
they were mistaken for a couple, a married couple.
This is the hour in
which everything is decided,
Anna thought. They had both had several
drinks and they talked a great deal. Anna found herself saying too much,
stopping and starting giddily. She put her hand to her forehead, feel–
ing faint.
"It's from the sun - you've had too much sun - ," he said.
At the door to her cottage, on the front porch, she
~ard
herself
asking him shyly if he would like to come in. She allowed
him
to lead
her inside, to close the door.
This is not important,
she thought clearly,
he doesn't mean it, he doesn't love me, nothing will come of it.
She was
frightened, yet it seemed to her necessary to give in: she had to leave
Nantucket with that act completed, an act of adultery, an accomplish–
ment she would take back to Ohio and to her marriage.
Then, incredibly, she heard herself asking: "Do you ... do you
love me?"
"You're so beautiful!" he said, amazed.
She felt
this
beauty, shy and glowing and centered in her eyes.
He stared at her. In this large, drafty house, alone together,
they
were
like accomplices, conspirators. She could not think: how old was she?
which year was this? They had done something unforgivable together
f
and the knowledge of it
was
tugging at their faces. A cloud seemed
to pass over her. She felt herself smiling shrilly.
Afterward, a peculiar raspiness, a dryness of breath. He was silent.
She felt a strange, idle fear, a sense of the danger outside
this
room
and this old, comfortable bed - a danger that would not recognize her
as the lady in that drawing, the lady with the pet dog. There was
nothing to say to this man, this stranger. She felt the beauty draining
out of her face, her eyes fading.
"I've got to
be
alone," she told him.
He left, and she underStood that she would not see
him
again. She
stood by the window of the room, watching the ocean. A sense of shame
overpowered her: it
was
smeared everywhere on her body, the smell
