Kathy was still deeply shocked. She could be handled gently, or not at all. The disappearance of Carl had had its own natural, inevitable prelude; he had been gone already, by the time he had crucified the Professor, by the time he could not make love to her. But there were six years of the past still to be counted, six years which could not disappear. They were a part of her, they were the reason why she dressed so well, talked so persuasively, looked so beautiful and aware. They were the formative years, changing her from a half-awake child to a woman. They could not be forgotten, nor disparaged.
She was not happy, but she was ready to be so, when the time came. Instead (she realized) she was lucky. She could shed the bad part of the past, and she could remain the heiress, for ever, of the good. There were all sorts of troubles ahead, but she had a man to help her. A man who she had thought was a boy, but who was not.
It was remarkable, she thought, looking at Tim, pressing his arm, how one such man could sum up the virtues of discipline and order, the merit of good behaviour.
He could make love beautifully, too.
"Darling," she said.
"Yes?" Standing guardian for her, with love allied to watchfulness, his voice had the correct, cherishing blend of both.
"What's a mate's ticket?"
.