“May I get you something to drink, sir?” the manservant said.

“No, thanks,” he answered. “I’ll wait for Mrs. Quantz.”

“You won’t have to,” a voice said, and it was Denise. She came toward him, her hands held out. “Kent dear, I’m so glad to see you.”

For a moment he looked at her. Then he said slowly, “I am too,” and added truthfully, “Until this moment I hadn’t realized how much.”

Denise smiled and leaned forward to kiss his cheek lightly. O’Donnell had a sudden impulse to take her into his arms, but restrained it.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered, with a smiling radiance that left him breathless. She had on a short, full-skirted evening gown of jet-black lace over a strapless sheath of black silk, the lace about her shoulders accenting the filmy vision of white flesh beneath. At her waist was a single red rose.

She released one of his hands and with the other led him to the terrace. The manservant had preceded them, carrying a silver tray with glasses and a cocktail shaker. Now he withdrew discreetly.

“The martinis are already mixed.” Denise looked at O’Donnell inquiringly. “Or if you like I can get you something else.”

“Martini is fine.”

Denise poured two drinks and handed him one. She was smiling, her eyes warm. Her lips said softly, “Welcome to New York from a committee of one.”

He sipped the martini; it was cool and dry. He said lightly, “Please thank the committee.”

For a brief moment her eyes caught his. Then, taking his arm, she moved across the terrace toward the low, pillared balustrade which marked its end.

O’Donnell asked, “How is your father, Denise?”

“He’s well, thank you. Entrenched like a true die-hard, of course, but in good health. Sometimes I think he’ll outlive us all.” She added, “I’m very fond of him.”

They had stopped and stood looking down. It was dusk now, the warm, mellow dusk of late summer, and the lights of New York were flickering on. From the streets below the throb of evening traffic was steady and insistent, punctuated by the peaklike whine of diesel buses and the full points of impatient horns. Across the way, its outline blurring into shadow, was Central Park, only scattered street lamps marking the roadways through. Beyond, the west-side streets dimmed darkly into the Hudson River; and on the river the pinpoint lamps of shipping were a link between the blackness and the distant glimmering New Jersey shore. Uptown, O’Donnell could see the George Washington Bridge, its highstrung floodlights a chain of white, bright beads, and, below, the headlights of cars, multi-laned, streaming across the bridge, away from the city. O’Donnell thought: People going home.

A warm, soft breeze stirred around them, and he was conscious of Denise’s closeness. Her voice said softly, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Even though you know that under the lights there are things that are wrong and hateful, it’s still beautiful. I love it all, especially at this time of evening.”

He said, “Have you ever considered going back—to Burlington, I mean?”

“To live?”

“Yes.”

“You can never go back,” Denise said quietly. “It’s one of the few things I’ve learned. Oh, I don’t mean just Burlington, but everything else—time, people, places. You can revisit, or renew acquaintance, but it’s never really the same; you’re detached; you’re passing through; you don’t belong because you’ve moved on.” She paused. “I belong here now. I don’t believe I could ever leave New York. Do I sound terribly unrealistic?”

“No,” he said. “You sound terribly wise.”

He felt her hand on his arm. “Let’s have one more cocktail,” she said, “then you may take me to dinner.”

Afterward they had gone to the Maisonette, a discreet and pleasantly appointed night club on Fifth Avenue. They had dined and danced, and now they had come back to their table. “How long have you in New York?” Denise asked.

“I go back in three more days,” he answered.

She inclined her head. “Why so soon?”

“I’m a workingman.” He smiled. “My patients expect me to be around and there’s a lot of hospital business too.”

Denise said, “I rather think I shall miss you.”

He thought for a moment, then turned to face her. Without preliminary he said, “You know that I’ve never been married.”

“Yes.” She nodded gravely.

“I’m forty-two,” he said. “In that time, living alone, one forms habits and patterns of life that might be hard to change or for someone else to accept.” He paused. “What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is that I might be difficult to live with.”

Denise reached out and covered his hand with her own. “Kent, darling, may I be clear about something?” She had the slightest of smiles. “Is this by any chance a proposal of marriage?”

O’Donnell was grinning broadly; he felt absurdly, exuberantly, boyish. “Now that you mention it,” he said, “I rather think it is.”

There was a moment’s silence before Denise answered, and when she spoke he sensed that she was maneuvering for time. “I’m very flattered, but aren’t you being a little rash? After all, we scarcely know one another.”

“I love you, Denise,” he said simply.

He felt her regarding him searchingly. “I could love you too,” she said. Then she added, speaking slowly and choosing her words, “At this moment everything in me tells me to say yes and to grab you, dearest, with two eager hands. But there’s a whisper of caution. When you’ve made one mistake you feel the need to be careful about committing yourself again.”

“Yes,” he said, “I can understand that.”

“I’ve never fallen in,” she said, “with the popular idea that one can shed partners quickly and afterward get over it, rather like taking an indigestion tablet. That’s one of the reasons, I suppose, why I’ve never got a divorce.”

“The divorce wouldn’t be difficult?”

“Not really. I imagine I could go to Nevada to arrange it, or some such place. But there’s the other thing—you’re in Burlington; I’m in New York.”

He said carefully, “You really meant what you said, Denise—about not living in Burlington?”

She thought before answering. “Yes. I’m afraid I do. I couldn’t live there—ever. There’s no use pretending, Kent; I know myself too well.”

A waiter appeared with coffee and replenished then: cups. O’Donnell said, “I feel a sudden compulsion for the two of us to be alone.”

Denise said softly, “Why don’t we go?”

He called for the check and paid it, helping Denise on with her wrap. Outside a doorman summoned a cab and O’Donnell gave the address of the Fifth Avenue apartment. When they had settled back, Denise said, “This is a very selfish question, but have you ever considered moving your practice to New York?”

“Yes,” he answered, “I’m thinking about it now.”

He was still thinking when they entered the apartment block and rode up in the elevator. Ever since Denise’s question he had been asking himself: Why shouldn’t I go to New York? There are fine hospitals; this is a medical city. It would not be difficult to get on staff somewhere. Setting up practice would be comparatively easy; his own record, as well as the friends he had in New York, would bring him referrals. He reasoned: What really keeps me tied to Burlington? Does my life belong there—now and for always? Isn’t it time, perhaps, for a change, a new environment? I’m not married to Three Counties Hospital, nor am I indispensable. There are things I’d miss, it’s true; the sense of building and creation, and the people I’ve worked with. But I’ve accomplished a great deal; no one can ever deny that. And New York means Denise. Wouldn’t it be worth it—all?

At the twentieth floor Denise used her own key to let them in; there was no sign of the manservant O’Donnell had seen earlier.

As if by consent they moved to the terrace. Denise asked, “Kent, would you like a drink?”

“Perhaps later,” he said, and reached out toward her. She came to him easily and their lips met. It was a lingering kiss. His arms tightened around her and he felt her body respond to his own. Then gently she disengaged herself.