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absurd, that I must stop being possessive and insecure. There was a bitter consolation in knowing that I was right.

    Suddenly as the train rattled across Waterloo Bridge I remembered how once at York I had come into the college library late at night and seen Mary sitting on Lewis’s lap. I did not think they had ever gone out together, but a certain tenderness between them might explain her vehemence. I was sure that Lewis was spending today with Mary’s friend of a friend.

CHAPTER 3
    During the next few weeks scarcely an hour passed without my mind swinging towards the idea of confronting Lewis with Mary’s comments, and then swinging away again. When we did talk, either face to face or on the telephone, I subjected even the most innocuous of his remarks to scrutiny, and whenever he was late, or made excuses not to meet, or explained too fully what he had done the night before, I suspected the worst. He submitted to my cross-examination with a curious meekness which probably signalled that he was about to break off with me.
    In the midst of these difficulties I had lunch with a former director of Fredericks. She was shocked to learn that I had still not been promoted to senior editor, and by the end of the meal she had persuaded me to apply for a job with a firm in Edinburgh. Once the letter was written and posted I did not give the matter much thought and I was taken aback to answer the telephone a fortnight later and hear a woman introduce herself as the secretary to the director of Murray and Stern. In a soft Scottish accent, she asked if I was free to come for an interview with Mr. Murray at ten o’clock tomorrow. I hesitated, and she began to apologise. “Mr. Murray’s down in London for a couple of days to talk to various educational authorities. He knows it’s short notice, but he was hoping that he might be able to see you at the
same time.” I found myself saying that I was sure I could manage.
    â€œSuper,” she said. “Let me give you the address of his hotel.”
    The following day was unusually warm. Even early in the morning, as I walked the short distance from Victoria Station to the hotel, the petunias in the window boxes were already wilting. I had not mentioned the interview to anyone. I had asked for the day off from work, pleading various errands, and Lewis, with whom I had gone to see a film the night before, had not been in the sort of mood that inspired confidences. Perhaps the secrecy served me in good stead, for it made the prospect seem less real, and not until I entered the lobby of the hotel was I aware of being nervous.
    As I approached the reception desk a voice from behind me said, “Miss Gilchrist?” I turned to find myself facing a tall, red-faced man. “Call me Bill,” he said, and shook my hand. He led the way to a group of armchairs in one corner of the lobby, and we sat down on opposite sides of a coffee table. “We just got back from the south of France, where, like an idiot, I fell asleep on the beach,” he said, gesturing towards his visage.
    A waiter came by offering morning coffee, and we each ordered a cup. Bill asked me about my current projects. I described the new series of Victorian novels on which I was working. “The rationale for the series is to introduce students not only to the text but to a wide range of critical approaches. I’m editing Tess of the D’Urbervilles at the moment, and we’re including examples of feminist, Marxist, and Freudian criticism as well as more traditional discussions.”
    â€œI saw the Jane Eyre that came out this spring,” Bill said. “It’s a handsome book and very nicely organised. We’re hoping to do something similar, specifically with Scottish novels.” We began to discuss possible projects for development. Bill put his briefcase on his knees and used it as a desk,
jotting things down in a small spiral notebook. When he looked at his