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leaned against the wall and felt its soft warmth through her blouse. There was no question of resisting temptation. She was lost. His large hands were splayed on the wall on either side of her head and he was leaning forward, his face close to hers.She gazed coolly into his eyes, though her thoughts were far from cool. She took hold of his shirt and gripped it tight.
    “Have you been thinking about me?”
    He nodded. She pulled his face to hers and as they kissed his hand moved from her breast to her hip to her groin.
    “Not here,” she whispered.
    He stepped back as she pushed herself off the wall. She paused beneath the arch in the wall and turned to him where he stood in front of the conservatory, wiping his fingers on a rag and watching her intently. She crossed the meadow to the copse of pines on the far side. She saw no one. She wandered among the trees and then lay down in the ferns. The sun streamed through the branches and she lifted her hand to shade her face.
    She was waiting for him, her blouse unbuttoned, when she heard the voices. She sat up. She couldn’t make out what they were saying but they were men’s voices and they were coming from the meadow. She held her breath. She realized what was happening. He had met John Archer coming across the meadow. They were talking in the meadow while twenty yards away she sat hidden in the trees. After a few moments she was seized by a bizarre impulse, she wanted to laugh, to shout out with wild joy at the sheer comic indignity of her position, for she couldn’t help imagining Max’s reaction, what he would say at seeing his wife hiding in the woods, half undressed, denied her furtive few moments of pleasure with Edgar Stark because an attendant had unwittingly intercepted the man on his way to their tryst.
    The voices died away soon after. She slipped out of the woods and ran across the drive to the house. She went upstairs and ran a bath. She was still a little giddy when she came back down to the drawing room and poured herself a drink. She sat in an armchair with a book, her drink in hand, and lit a rare cigarette.
    Her reaction astonished her. That she should want to l a ugh— what did this mean? In the full knowledge of the consequences of discovery, to laugh was to say she didn’t care what happenedto her! This was her interpretation. I suggested that instead it might be connected with anger.
    What anger?
    Anger with Max. It seemed clear to me, I said, that her behavior was linked to a desire to hurt Max.
    She shook her head. I don’t think so, Peter, she said. But there was, as I suspected, a massive reservoir of resentment in her. She was not ready to talk about it yet, and I didn’t force her. It would come.
    Assignation, this was the next stage. Establishing the times and places, giving the thing a structure. What made it so difficult, of course, was the fact that Edgar enjoyed such limited freedom of movement. But despite the constraints they did find the times and places, one always does; they had their assignations.
    The day after Edgar was intercepted by John Archer they met by the conservatory and she told him they ought to get organized.
    He was at his workbench. There was a long pause.
    “You want to go on with it then?” he said at last.
    She was sitting on the bench in the shade of the wall. She was wearing her straw hat and sunglasses. She lifted her head and nodded. He seemed to sway slightly, and then turned back to his work. “Archer,” he murmured.
    She had a basket with her and had tossed some flowers into it. She stood up and set off back down the path toward the house. John Archer came toward her, his boots crunching on the gravel. She made a conscious effort to behave naturally.
    “Good morning, Mr. Archer. Lovely tomatoes you’re giving us. Nice and sweet.”
    He nodded affably and said something about summer salads. Stella wondered what there was in that steady gaze that put her on her guard. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps only her