Quicksand
she felt, explain. It would be too difficult, too mortifying. She had no words which could adequately, and without laceration to her pride, convey to him the pitfalls into which very easily they might step. “I might,” she said, “have considered it once—when I first came. But you, hoping for a more informal arrangement, waited too long. You missed the moment. I had time to think. Now I couldn‘t. Nothing is worth the risk. We might come to hate each other. I‘ve been through it, or something like it. I know. I couldn‘t do it. And I‘m glad.”
Rising, she held out her hand, relieved that he was still silent. “Good afternoon,” she said formally. “It has been a great honor—”
“A tragedy,” he corrected, barely touching her hand with his moist finger-tips.
“Why?” Helga countered, and for an instant felt as if something sinister and internecine flew back and forth between them like poison.
“I mean,” he said, and quite solemnly,
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