She was moving through a screen of hemlocks, in among the white birch and maples.
The sounds from the quarry began to pulse in her ears.
She stood, once more listening.
She had never been here at this hour.
She felt as if some dark, totally unfamiliar shape would clutch at her arm;
but she found the path she always used, the stubs of branches she had broken, those she had pushed aside;
and she walked easily now, and more slowly, until she could see the dark glisten of water beneath her.

If I ever committed suicide, she thought, I would dive straight down from here -- and no one would find me for days.
She smiled, and expertly let herself downward, holding this known root or that, her sneakers sliding in the leaves.

She jumped out onto the flat expanse of rock and, seating herself, shook her short-cut brown hair and tilted her chin far upward.
The reedy music of the frogs had faded, but presently it began again, growing in volume until it was vibrant.
Julia felt at peace and drew her legs up and clasped her hands tightly around the bent knees.
She had accomplished a miracle.
This was her place.
The hour couldn't change it.
Only -- only -- her thoughts were a little strange.
They were becoming confused.
Perhaps it was because it was so late, and because she had no business to be here now.

She was thinking of Paul a few weeks ago, in the Easter holidays, with her at one of those awful Friday Evening Dancing Class parties her mother had made her attend.
"Hello, Julie, how are you"?
And then off he went so casually, to someone else with breasts better developed, more obvious in a lower-cut dress, someone without a mouthful of wire bands and an inability to find words that would hold him.
I wish he was with me now, she thought, and that we were both the ages we are and doing what was once only pretense and acute embarrassment.
Oh God!
I wish I were older or younger, Julia Bentley thought.
I wish so much someone loved me.

George Rawlings remembered seeing the door open sometime during the night -- Millie, in a white robe, standing like a ghost at the threshold.
She had vanished;
he must have slept again.
He was staring at the blue china lamp left on beside him.
It seemed too much trouble even to reach for the switch;
but of course the impossible effort of leaving would have to be made on this Monday morning.
This room was like a prison.
He would not be indebted to Sam!
Below him, as if at the end of some remote tunnel, he heard the humming of a vacuum cleaner.
His fingers fumbled across the bandages.
They had left both of his eyes uncovered.
Well, he told himself, let's put the show on the road.

He was walking across to the bathroom.
He drank a glass of water and gripped the sink with both hands.
A fearful pain had come from his head, as if the water were coursing up through the blood vessels and expanding them.
He recognized his jacket and trousers.
The fabric was dark;
the stains weren't too apparent;
and there were his shoes, thank God, but his shirt was one terrible mess.

He shivered, and then tore away the blood-soaked parts and wound the rest around his neck like a scarf.
Sam would be amazed to find him gone.
Millie would have to understand.
She must have put his clothes in the closet.
He found a lump rising in his throat because of that one simple act of tidiness.
He was on the verge of tears.
Alex Poldowski -- in a fashion he owed a debt to that effete gentleman.
At least Alex had told him he wasn't dying.
Perhaps George Rawlings would be better off dead.

What time was it?
He peered at his wristwatch.
Strange, it was still running.
A quarter to seven.
Too early for a vacuum cleaner, but probably Sam wanted the whole house in order before he came downstairs.
He was kneeling to tie his shoelaces.
His fingers felt absurdly thick and clumsy.
He rose slowly and looked into the mirror on the inside of the closet door.
He barely knew himself.
This was some freak, two strands of adhesive tape across his nose, like ugly roots from the mass of gauze, suddenly moist over his cheekbones.
The surface, however, was perfectly white.

He was drinking another glass of water.
It was after seven o'clock.
He was supposed to be in court this afternoon, at City Hall.
Who would take over?
He'd have to think, but the main thing, the imperative necessity, was to leave before Sam Bentley was up and about, and before Millie detained him with sympathy.

He entered the hallway.
He was actually walking down the stairs.
A plane up in the sky, above the clouds, and this freakish wreck of a man desperately trying to get away.

"Father, is that you"?
The voice issued from the cavern of the hall below.
George did not reply.
"Is that you, Father?
Who's there"?

For a moment he felt like a thief discovered.
Then Julia appeared under the arch leading to the dining room.
She stood gazing at him.

"Uncle George"!

He was trying to smile at her.

"Gosh!
You shouldn't be up, should you"?

"I -- I was just leaving here, Julie.
I'm all set.
Just about to call a taxi".

She was wearing some sort of gray blazer.
She seemed overly tall, her brow knitted in concern.
"Well, at least you won't have to do that", she was saying.
"I'm about to leave myself.
I'll drop you off".

"You're leaving"?

"I'm going back to school", she answered.
"Pietro's driving me.
I'm just finishing breakfast.
But have you told Mother you were going"?
She asked him.

"No.
I just don't want anyone disturbed, Julie.
That's my wish.
It's quite a big one", he added.

Her face seemed to float in an implausibly bright shaft of sunlight.
"Well, won't you come in then, have a cup of coffee -- or something?
Or maybe a drink"?
She asked, in a way that seemed oddly sophisticated, considerate, and yet perhaps partly scornful.
He tried to see her face more clearly.

"No -- nothing at all", he said after a moment's hesitation.
"I'll just wait for you here".

He leaned his head against the wood paneling behind him, but the vivid red images of pain inserted themselves against his eyelids.
He raised them.
Julia moved past.

"I have to say good-bye upstairs.
I won't be long".

"As a great favor, Julie", he said, "please don't mention you've seen me".

"Not to anyone"?

"No -- please.
"I'll call your mother as soon as I get home.
It'll be so much easier".

"All right" She was staring at him.

"I'm fine, Julie.
Please, you just go ahead".

She had disappeared.
He could feel a pulse pounding against the bandages.
He imagined Sam's voice: "George, what the hell goes on"?
I wouldn't have the strength to answer, he thought.
Maybe I couldn't have called a taxi.

He could hear the footsteps overhead.
He saw the suitcase, which Julia was holding.
He stood up.

"I'll take that, Julie -- for you".

"Oh no", she said.
"I can manage".

She went ahead of him.
Outside the Lincoln was parked.
He could hardly believe he was getting in.
Pietro was gazing at him in an insolent, disdainful fashion;
but that didn't matter.

We'll drop Mr. Rawlings off in Ardmore", Julia said, and for the merest second George was reminded of her father's tone with servants.
To the manner born -- odd to have such a thought at a time like this;
yet her inflection seemed forced or rehearsed.
He could not stop to analyze.
He had never felt particularly close to her.
Carrie seemed more affectionate, but obviously Julia had respected his request.
He took her hand.

"I wish I didn't have to go back to school", she said, and then, "I wish you lived in New York.
That's in the opposite direction".

"I wish I did", he responded.
"I wish I wasn't wearing this ridiculous costume, and that we could go to a theater together, or a nice restaurant, forget we knew" He stopped speaking.

"Forget we ever knew what"?

"Oh, just sort of everything in general".

She said nothing until Pietro had slackened their pace.
"I know you feel badly, but that sounds like such a queer thing for you to say".

"Does it"?
He asked.
"Yes, perhaps.
I'm supposed to joke about things, aren't I?
But sometimes life can be rather a disappointing business".

His voice seemed thick and purposeless.
He relinquished her hand.
He could see the stone building where he lived.
Just a few more steps.
Abruptly he reached into his pocket.
Yes, there was the key.

"Are you positive you'll be all right by yourself"?
She asked him.

For a moment he smiled.
"Yes, Julie dear.
You've done me the greatest possible service.
By myself I'll be fine".

"Take care of yourself then".

"I will.
You, also.
Don't work too hard".

It was an automatic phrase;
as he crossed through the courtyard he regretted it.
He should have discovered a more tender farewell.
Someone shouted at him, "Well!
Will you look at George Rawlings!
What happened to you"?

"I bumped into a door handle", George said.

Someone laughed.
George walked steadily ahead into his entry.
His bandages seemed on fire.
He had shut his door with the brass number screwed to it.
In the kitchenette the raw whiskey made him gasp.
Just one or two swallows, he told himself, enough to lessen some of the pain.

He was telephoning.
"No, Millie, I'm home.
No, really, right as rain.
Tell Sam not to worry about the car.
I'll get it hauled away.
No, please -- no visit today -- I'll be asleep.
For God's sake, don't worry.
That upsets me more than anything.
Yes, sure, I'll see the doctor -- this evening, if you insist."

There was one more call to make.

"Joan, did I wake you"?
He asked.
"Yes, I thought you'd probably be up.
Look, sweetheart, some fool was.
Happened to be driving somewhat intoxicated last night.
Unfortunately it turned out to be me, but I wouldn't quite put it that way to the boss.
Oh hell no, I'm not in a hospital.
I won't be in town for a couple of days, though, and there's that case I was supposed to handle this afternoon.
Too bad a jury isn't involved.
I might struggle in for a jury.
I'd win hands down.
But I thought maybe Tony Elliott could pinch-hit for me.
He'll understand -- you might give him sort of a tactful nudge.
He's got all the facts.
I wouldn't want to ask for a postponement -- it's really just a routine thing.
What?
No, darling I'd rather you didn't come out".
A smile pulled at the lower strip of adhesive tape.
"Don't even send flowers.
I'll see you Wednesday.
I'll bribe you with a nice" -- He was about to say "double martini" but thought better of it.
"I'll take you out to dinner.
Okay?"

He had put down the receiver.
A strange relationship between Joan Fulbright and himself.
Who knew about it?
She lived alone in the older part of the city, in one of those renovated houses whose brick facade some early settler had constructed.
She had two tiny rooms on the second floor.
She was a clever girl, a most efficient secretary.
She let him come and go as he pleased, or as it pleased her.
In the office you might have thought them only casual friends;
yet if he said: Make an excuse yourself, come out here today, she would have been on the next train -- and, similarly, if she had been in need, he would have gone to her.