"Do you mean his memory's cracking up?" she demanded.
"I think we could find out."
"How?"
"By getting him to talk about his book. To write that book he must draw on both his memories, experiences, or whatever you like to call it. That's his whole equipment for it—two conscious experiences, with himself balanced in the middle making the most of both. We might find out that way."
"Oh, there's a shorter way than that," she said.
"What?"
"To ask him."
I shrugged my shoulders again. "Yes...."
And then I took her entirely off her guard. Outside the pink had turned to peach, and the amber star had become a diamond. Suddenly, as they do, the trout had ceased to rise, and a single short squawk came from the moorhens' nest. I rose and stood before her.
"Julia," I said without warning, "would you marry him?"