The voice came clearly from the distaff side of sex, and it contained a remarkable husky quality that I had heard before and remembered well, but at first I couldn’t believe that I was hearing it now. It was the kind of voice that a woman sometimes acquires with a sore throat or from drinking far too much gin. You do not quickly forget this kind of voice under any circumstances whatever, and you do not forget it at all, even after seven years of silence, if you have heard it with all the nuances of tenderness and passion and sometimes anger.
“One of the nicest things about coming back to a place,” it said, “is meeting old friends in general and some old friends in particular. Hello, old friend.”
I looked into the mirror and saw the face that went with the voice, and it was practically the same face that had gone with it when I had last encountered them together. Seven years in passing will leave a trace here and a trace there on the best and most durable of faces, however, and this one was a little leaner than I remembered it, a little more posed and guarded against being caught unaware. Still, for all that, one of the loveliest faces, surely, in all the world, and one that I had never thought to see again. Part of gone. A passage in the evening elegy of cicadas. Part, although I didn’t know it, of the natural conspiracy of a particular day.
I spun slowly, half a turn of the stool, and faced the face directly. Beth Webb was its name. I had loved it once, and it had loved me. It had said so, at least, although in the end it hadn’t acted so.
“Well, for God’s sake,” I said. “Hello.”
“You look about the same,” Beth said. “Hair, teeth, no glasses yet. Is everything really yours?”
“All mine. I wear glasses to read. You can hardly expect a man to survive seven years without deteriorating a little.”
“Has it been that long? Actually seven years?”
“Seven lean years. The period of famine. Wasn’t there something like that in the Bible or somewhere?”
“Darling, I’m sorry. Has it been difficult for you?”
“Not at all. Everything has been fine.”
“Well, you mustn’t sound too cheerful about it. I’ll feel better if you suffered just a little. What’s that you’re drinking? It looks good.”
“It’s called a gimlet, and it’s made of gin and lime juice.”
“Is that all? Just gin and lime juice?”
“That’s all. If you don’t count the cucumber slice.”
“It doesn’t sound quite as good as it looks. I’ll have one with you, however, if you’ll ask me.”
“Excuse me. Will you have a gimlet with me?”
“Yes, I will, thank you.”
I ordered one for her with a gesture to Chauncy, and another for myself with the same gesture, which made one more than I’d planned to have, and I carried both of them over to a little table where she had gone to sit while I was waiting. It was a very small table, and we accidentally touched knees for an instant under it, and I thought sadly that it had been a long time, seven lean years of famine, since I had touched her knee, either accidentally or on purpose, under a table or elsewhere. She was wearing a black dress with a narrow skirt, a sheath, and a tiny black hat on her pale blond head, which was natural. She had always looked good in black, and she still did. My fingers had always itched for her when she wore it, and they still did. I had a drink of my third gimlet while she was having a drink of her first.
“How do you like the gimlet?” I said.
“Much better than I expected, I’m happy to say. It’s remarkable how the lime juice disguises the gin.”
“Bear in mind that it’s only disguised. It’s still there, three to one.”
“That’s quite a strong drink, isn’t it? Do you think several of them would make me drunk?”
“It’s possible. Even probable. It would depend on your tolerance for gin.”
“I think I would like getting drunk on gimlets. Would you care to get drunk on gimlets with me?”
“Time was I’d have accepted with pleasure. Now I must beg to be excused. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, please. I deserve your scorn. I may simply get drunk on gimlets all alone.”
“Do I detect a note of bitterness? Is it possible that the lean years have been difficult for you too?”
“Now good, now bad. One doesn’t expect too much, darling. Tell me about yourself. What have you been doing all this time?”
“Routine stuff. Practicing law. Getting married.”
“I heard about that. It made me sad, and I wanted to cry.”
“I was weak. I should have mourned you in celibacy all my life.”
“That would have been romantic, but hardly called for. After all, I couldn’t expect you to do what I was not willing to do myself.”
“True. Celibacy would not have suited you. Such a waste.”
“Thank you, darling. You made that abundantly clear, I remember, long ago. What is your wife like?”
“Small but potent. She has brown hair and nice legs and a warm heart. Her name is Sydnie, but I call her Sid. We were married three years ago.”
“She’s lucky. You tell her I said she’s lucky.”
“Cut it out, Beth. She’s not lucky, but she’s satisfied. So am I, and it’s a nice arrangement.”
“I’ve tried and tried to remember her, but I can’t. Did I know her?”
“No. She came here after you went away.”
“How convenient for you. You see how things
