She shook her head. “It didn't really need a gift, this particular problem, did it?” she said. “It is not—excuse me—it isn't exactly a new one.”
“No, it isn't. It is as old as the hills, but there are always new twists to it.”
“As there are to all our old problems.”
“Yes. By the way, your advice about the ending of my third story was exactly what I needed. The editor wrote me he should never have forgiven me if it had ended in any other way. It probably WOULD have ended in another way if it hadn't been for you. Thank you, Helen.”
“Oh, you know there was really nothing to thank me for. It was all you, as usual. Have you planned the next story, the fifth, yet?”
“Not entirely. I have some vague ideas. Do you want to hear them?”
“Of course.”
So they discussed those ideas as they walked along the sidewalk of the street leading down to the parsonage. It was a warm evening, a light mist, which was not substantial enough to be a fog, hanging low over everything, wrapping them and the trees and the little front yards and low houses of the old village in a sort of cozy, velvety, confidential quiet. The scent of lilacs was heavy in the air.
They both were silent. Just when they had ceased speaking neither could have told. They walked on arm in arm and suddenly Albert became aware that this silence was dangerous for him; that in it all his resolves and brave determinations were melting into mist like that about him; that he must talk and talk at once and upon a subject which was not personal, which—
And then Helen spoke.