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said: “Look, come and have some tea with me before you start work. Have you seen any American papers?”
    The endearment caught him by surprise, and his face softened. He did not know of the English habit of using such affectionate epithets rather haphazardly, and he was impressed that she should consider him her dear.
    “O.K.,” he said, considerably mollified, and followed her obediently up the garden path and into her kitchen.
    The two women students who rented rooms from her had gone to church, and the remains of their breakfast lay on the table inthe breakfast nook. Isobel looked at the muddle with distaste, then quickly washed her hands, put a kettle of water on the gas stove and assembled cups and saucers on a tray, while Hank ambled curiously around the old-fashioned kitchen. It had none of the clinical efficiency of his mother’s, but it did remind him of his grandmother’s kitchen out on the farm, with its prosiac line of battered saucepans which shared a shelf with a large bowl for making bread and a hopeful looking collection of cake tins.
    There was cake, satisfying and fruity, and he sat on the edge of the chesterfield in Isobel’s sitting-room and ate it appreciatively between gulps of strong, sweet tea from one of her best bone china teacups.
    He liked this room, he decided. A man could put his feet up here without fear of being rebuked, and maybe he could even leave things about. Her desk looked untidy, and a basket by the fireplace was filled with old magazines and newspapers. On a little table by the piano was a pile of much thumbed music.
    He got up and went to the piano, sat on the stool and found that it revolved. He did a slow twist on it, laughing at her as he did so, then played a chord. She did not object, so he broke into a piece by Debussy and she listened attentively. After a few minutes, he became aware of Peter Dawson’s portrait staring down at him from the top of the piano, and he stopped.
    “I didn’t know you could play,” she said. “You are quite good.”
    “Always got an A in music,” he replied, still contemplating the portrait. “Paid for lessons out of my newspaper money.” He nodded towards the photograph. “Sorry about Peter.”
    She was suddenly tense and her voice came stiffly: “Thank you.”
    Seeing her quivering lips, he wished he had not mentioned Peter. What a clumsy lout he was! Desperately he wanted to comfort her, but how does a man comfort a girl crying for someone else, he wondered anxiously. “You’ll feel better later on,” he floundered. “Lousy job – the army.”
    She controlled herself with an effort. “Yes, but I think he felt the peacekeeping mission was very worthwhile.”
    He tried to change the subject. “Funny to think you’re a Canadian.”
    She realized he was trying to lead the conversation away from her husband, to be kind and make up for his blunder. “I suppose I am,” she said. She picked up a New York paper from the pile on the coffee table. “I wanted to show you this.”
    He felt a little snubbed and was angry with himself. He took the paper from her, however, and after a quick glance at her set face, read the column she indicated, which was headed “Book Reviews”. He whistled under his breath.
    “‘ The Cheaper Sex … a disgusting book … vulgar pornography … shocking,’” he read in a mutter, and looked at her sheepishly.
    She had recovered herself, and tiny humorous lines were gathering round her eyes.
    “Now read this one,” she commanded.
    He read aloud: “‘Delicate delineation of a boy’s sensations on discovering physical love … powerful and evocative description of adolescent suffering in an unsympathetic society … the best to come out of Canada for years …’ Aw, hell!” He slammed the paper down, his face going pink in spite of his efforts to appear blasé. “Do you think it was a sick book?”
    Isobel smiled and said: “No. I told you it was a good book, and I was right. A lot of things