Hands clenched behind his back, jaws working on the bit of his pipe, Dr. Mason glared for a few moments at his reflection in the window. A rhyme his dentist had taught him returned: “Lips together, teeth apart.” Taught him too late, regrettably. The enamel had been worn away by the time he was twenty-five and he had to have all his teeth capped, first in plastic, later in porcelain and gold. The recollection distracted him; his hands tapped absently against the table and finally he turned off the light and sat down in his padded rocking chair, arms loose in his lap, the smoke from his pipe wreathing his head at intervals.

Maggie had not been home the previous night. He had been anxious but not seriously worried. Then the next day she missed work. The bookstore called him and his calmness had only added to the confusion. Half a dozen partial explanations had been relayed by her coworkers; nothing definitive.

She did not call for three days. When she did, he felt not angry but betrayed. He could not feel angry once he knew she was all right. She was no longer a child; he could no longer protect her. All he asked was she tell him beforehand what she was going to do. When he heard she was married, he gave them both his blessing and offered to send money.

Post cards were forwarded from New York, Niagara Falls, Chicago. They told him nothing about the details of her departure. Nor did he learn much over the phone. When she reappeared, it was without her new husband and, apparently, the need for any explanation. She would only say vaguely they had gone on a honeymoon and that Pete was still traveling.

“On business?”

She shook her head.