"Why?"

    He regretted the question almost immediately.

    "Because it's all about a secret submarine base in Portsmouth harbor."

    Was this really where two years of English literature studies had led her, all that Beowulf and Chaucer, and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: to a secret submarine base in Portsmouth harbor?

    "What?" demanded Gloria warily.

    "I was just thinking," he lied, "that your narrator's a man. Unless she's a woman who happens to play cricket for the village team."

    "So?"

    "It's a challenge, I imagine, writing a male narrator."

    "You don't think I'm up to it?"

    "I didn't say that."

    "Four brothers," she said, holding up three fingers.

    "And it's not as if you're the first chap I've ever stepped out with."

    This was a truth she liked to assert from time to time, dishing out unsavory details to drive home her point, although she was too angry for that right now.

    She tossed the remainder of her wine away, the liquid crescent flopping into the tall grass. She got to her feet a little unsteadily. "I'm going." "Don't," he said, taking her hand. "Stay."

    "You hate it."

    "That's not true."

    "I know what you're thinking."

    "You're wrong. I could be jailed for what I'm thinking."

    It was a crass play, but he knew her vulnerability to that kind of talk. Besides, this was the reason they'd skipped their lectures and come to the meadow, was it not?

    "I'm sorry," he said, capitalizing on her faint smile, "I suppose I'm just jealous."

    "Jealous?"

    "I couldn't do it, I know that. It's great. Really. It hooked me instantly. The drunken vicar's a great touch."

    "You like him?"

    "A lot."

    Gloria allowed herself to be drawn back down onto the blanket, into their sunken den, out of sight of the river towpath, where the stubby willows bristled.