The Everlasting

SEVERAL YEARS AFTER the war—what war?—during the mid-afternoon hour I generally put aside to fantasize about setting fire to my manuscript—what manuscript?—I received a book in the post.

No. It was not the affable, chap-cheeked campus postman who delivered the book. It was a handsome woman who smelled, sickeningly, of summer flowers. She was very tall; how had I never noticed how tall she was?

This time, when I saw the book, I felt no awe or terror or ambition. I felt nothing at all. How could I? I had left my heart beneath the yew.

Vivian Rolfe cleared off a corner of my desk and sat, fishing comfortably through the detritus until she found a stray cigarette and a book of matches. She did not hurry; why would she?