For all Lydia’s outer stillness her heart was thumping in her chest. A part of her mind protested that it could not be true, that Guy’s presence there must be some strange manifestation of her thought; her father had been speaking of him just a short time ago, that very afternoon, and here Guy was, standing before her, wearing a chesterfield coat with an astrakhan collar, his bowler hat briefly lifted in one hand, his briefcase and a paper-wrapped package in the other. He was standing just feet away from her on the other side of the counter. If she stretched out her hand she could touch him. They stood in silence facing one another. It had been four years and nine months since they had last met, and she could see the passage of the years in his face. There was a maturity about him; she could detect faint lines about his mouth, about the corners of his eyes and marking his forehead. Little lines of care. Other than that he looked the same. At last he spoke, frowning a little at the wonder of the unexpected meeting, but his mouth lifting slightly.
