"It was the truth, vivid and monstrous,
that all the while he had waited the wait was itself his portion."
-- Henry James
What evoked the actions that had so astonished him in the course of their encounter scarcely matters, being probably some off-handed comment spoken as they rekindled their acquaintance. He had tagged along with friends to lunch at the house where she was staying, after which the party dispersed to peruse the treasures occupying its great rooms. Wandering the corridors that October afternoon, he lingered in front of a large painting overhanging the mantle, which depicted a woman floating nude among the reeds and lilies of some exotic river.
He had contemplated Kate's face across the table as one does a mislaid memory: the sequel to a commencement he could not recall. Such a curious feeling, that some past exchange might have held no importance for him, while his impression of her now carried so much.
Hanging back as her consort moved on to the library, her expression bore amusement, having guessed the magnitude of attention he had devoted to her that afternoon. When they finally spoke, they were alone, charmed by the feeling of mutual arrangement the moment held. The smell of her perfume called to mind a summer morning near the Spanish steps, and he felt a sudden recollection.
"We met years ago in Rome," he blurted, "I remember it clearly."
She smiled; her intuition confirmed. "It was Naples, actually. Ten years ago." She had waited so long for naught: a deferral she would reciprocate. "And do you remember what you told me that day, as we sought shelter from the rain? I've never forgotten it, and it has fixed you in my memory all these years."
The possibility crossed his mind that she had stored up some youthful amorous appeal, but her face said otherwise.
