For the next while, Mrs. Andrews kept to those subjects (her father and Ottawa), deflecting questions that might lead elsewhere. Bernard did not mind, because it had been two years, two years almost exactly, since he’d had anything like an intimate conversation with a woman. Still, there was something forbidding about her choice of subjects, and, after a while, his mind wandered and he looked up at the morning sky, which was grey, though, here and there, the sun came through, illuminating patches of town and forest.

As they approached the bed and breakfast, Mrs. Andrews suddenly stopped speaking. Contrite, she said,

— I’m so sorry. I’ve been going on and on.

But before Bernard could demur, she asked,

— Are you working today? Maybe we could explore the town together.

It was Saturday. He had nothing in particular to do, but as for exploring the town: that would take little more than an hour, an hour if they went slowly. No matter. He agreed to “do Hornepayne” with her. He went upstairs to bathe and shave. When he came down half an hour later, Mrs. Andrews was on the phone in the front hall.

— I changed my mind, that’s all . . . I don’t care.

She saw Bernard, turned away, and spoke more softly before hanging up. When she turned back to him, her smile was grim.

Mrs. Andrews was not interested in the town. They went first to the statue of the bear and cub, wandered along a few of the side streets, and then walked to Hornepayne Cemetery. She asked him about himself, but now it was Bernard’s turn to be evasive. He spoke of his life in the most fleeting way. And by the time they arrived at the cemetery, they had fallen back into silence.

The sign above the cemetery was like that above a corral: a double arc in which the words HORNEPAYNE and CEMETERY nested, looking very much like a stencil. The white crosses and tombstones were not in strict rows, but there was order. Behind the cemetery, the trees of the woods stood shoulder to shoulder, but they were thin and bedraggled.

— This is the first week they could dig graves, said Mrs. Andrews. The ground’s too hard in winter.

— Oh, are you from around here? Bernard asked.

— No, she answered.

Mrs. Andrews lowered her head and her shoulders began to shake. Bernard thought she had begun to cry but she was laughing.

— What is it? he asked.

— Nothing. I’m in a cemetery in a horrible town with a man I don’t know. It feels like I’m dreaming. But I’m glad you’re here. Do you mind if I hold your arm?

Bernard gave her his arm, and they went slowly back to the town centre. A small wind ruffled the trees and brought pieces of paper to life. The weight of Mrs. Andrews’ arm in his was both comforting and a source of distress, the distress one feels on being handed something fragile. It was almost a relief when they came to the coffee shop and stopped for tea.

The shop was small and a little grimy, but as if this were the place and moment she’d been waiting for, Mrs. Andrews began to confide in him, sharing the details of her life. She was in town for her father’s funeral. His funeral was for the next day. She was not sure she should have come. She had never liked her father, had felt nothing for him but disgust since she was six years old. She did not say what, exactly, had disgusted her, but, for an hour, her world (like a planet) came darkly into view as she sat before him. Bernard studied Mrs. Andrews’ face. It was, even when she was distraught or confused, appealing.

As they returned to the bed and breakfast, Mrs. Andrews again took Bernard’s arm.

— You’ve been very kind, she said. I don’t know how to thank you, but I wonder if . . . I shouldn’t ask, I know, but I don’t think I can go to my father’s funeral alone. Would you come with me? Please. I don’t have anyone else to ask.