“Would you like to go over it all again with another?”
There was no reply.
She had hidden her face in her hands and pressed her head against the end of the sofa. Her whole figure shrank lower, as though to escape being touched by him—to escape the blow of his words. No words came. There was no touch.
A moment later she felt that he must be standing over her, looking down at her. She would respond to his hand on the back of her neck. He must be kneeling beside her; his arms would infold her. Then with a kind of incredible terror she realized that he was not there. At first she could so little believe it, that with her face still buried in one hand she searched the air for him with the other, expecting to touch him.
Then she cried out to him:
“Isn’t there anything you can say to me?”
Silence lasted.
“Oh, Fred! Fred! Fred! Fred!”
In the stillness she began to hear something—the sound of his footsteps moving on the carpet. She sat up.
The room was getting darker; he was putting out the candles. It was too dark already to see his face. With fascination she began to watch his hand. How steady it was as it moved among the boughs, extinguishing the lights. Out they went one by one and back into their darkness returned the emblems of darker ages—the Forest Memories.