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He had been loyal to Alice all during the trial and appeals. He had never, so far as Myra knew, admitted her guilt, but he would be loyal, he would never have admitted Alice’s guilt, whether he accepted it in his heart and mind or rejected it. No matter what he really believed he would do exactly as he had done. And would continue to do.
    Yet Alice couldn’t be innocent; she had been tried and convicted; she’d been seen in the very act of murder. How could Richard really believe her innocent?
    She would not think of that; it lay in the pattern of life which she must leave, and must forget.
    The last glow was leaving the sky; the water looked gray and cold and desolate. She pulled her coat up around her throat and Richard saw it and said quickly, “You’re cold. We’ll go back. I’m a selfish son of a gun. But the fact is …”
    They had stopped. He was facing her and, without intending to, she met his eyes. He said, “I’ll miss you, Myra.”
    A wave broke with a little soft whisper against the sand. Willie, digging somewhere, diverted, gave a sharp bark. Myra dug her hands into her coat pockets to stop their trembling. The airplane was almost overhead, its droning engine like the beating of a pulse that could not be denied.
    Richard said, “Myra—I don’t want you to go.” And took her in his arms, all at once, strongly, holding her tight to him. She moved her head and his mouth came down warm and hard upon her own and the regular beat of the airplane engine became her own heart, his heart, all life beating around them.
    Willie barked sharply. Richard let her go. He looked out across the gray water.
    â€œI didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t mean to say that. Forget it—will you, Myra?”
    â€œForget …” Forget his arms, forget his mouth upon her own? Forget that in an instant’s time so much had changed?
    â€œForgive me, Myra—I suppose we’d better go up to dinner.” He went away from her. He made Willie a pretext and walked toward the dog who was still digging furiously in the sand. His compact, solid body, his dark head seemed to recede from her forever into the twilight.
    Shadows were gathering now everywhere, turning the water darker, robbing it of its rosy light. The shore of Long Island was an indistinct dark line along the horizon. The sky was deeper blue; the evening star above his head was brighter but very cold, very distant. It was nothing you could touch, nothing you could reach up to and pull down into your embrace. Into your heart.
    The airplane was passing on, the beat of the engine was already a distant drone and the havoc and tumult of the instant or two that had accompanied it was passing too. Up above them a light would shine from the house. Alice’s house.
    â€œCome on, Willie,” said Richard in the distance. He bent again and scooped up the little dog who resisted, flailing his short, black legs, and came back toward her. “Well—you’re shivering. We’d better go up to the house.”
    There were words that must be said, now. There was no time to debate whether or not it was better for them to be forever unspoken; there was only a strong compulsion to hurry, to get something that was very important said, something clear before it was too late. Before Richard himself put a seal upon words. She put both hands on his arm and Willie bent to put his chill little nose against them.
    â€œRichard—Richard,” she said, “you see why I must leave.”
    The throbbing sound of the airplane diminished altogether. There was only silence, and the gathering night and the man before her, looking down into her face.
    He said at last, “You’ve known …”
    â€œAbout myself. Yes, Richard.”
    â€œThat’s why you were leaving?”
    â€œYes.”
    Another long moment passed while they stood there, searching each other’s eyes. Then Richard