It had been a month and a half since Alex had seen Celia and, though he had been expecting some deterioration, her present appearance chilled him.

She was seated - if her posture could be called that - on the studio couch. She had positioned herself sideways, fac­ing away from the outer door. Her shoulders were hunched down, her head lowered, arms crossed in front, with each hand clasping the opposite shoulder. Her body, too, was curled upon itself and her legs drawn up with knees to­gether. She was absolutely still.

He went to her and put a hand gently on one shoulder. "Hullo, Celia. It's me - Alex. I've been thinking about you, so I came to see you."

She said, low-voiced, without expression, "Yes." She did not move.

He increased the pressure on the shoulder. "Won't you turn around to look at me? Then we can sit together and talk."

The only response was a perceptible rigidity, a tightening of the position in which Celia was huddled.

Her skin texture, Alex saw, was mottled and her fair hair only roughly combed. Even now her gentle, fragile beauty had not entirely vanished, though clearly it would not be long before it did.

"Has she been like this long?" he asked the nurse quietly.

"All of today and part of yesterday; some other days as well." The girl added matter-of-factly, "She feels more comfortable that way, so it's best if you take no notice, just sit down and talk."

Alex nodded. As he went to the single armchair and set­tled himself, the nurse tiptoed out, closing the door gently.

"I went to the ballet last week, Celia," Alex said. "It was Coppelia. Natalia Makarova danced the lead and Ivan Nagy was Frantz. They were magnificent together and, of course, the music was wonderful. It reminded me of how you loved Coppelia, that it was one of your favorites. Do you remem­ber that night, soon after we were married, when you and I …

He could call back in memory clearly, even now, the way Celia had looked that evening - in a long, pale green chif­fon gown, tiny sequins glittering with reflected light. As usual, she had been ethereally beautiful, slim and gossamer-like, as if a breeze might steal her if he looked away. In those days he seldom did. They had been married six months and she was still shy at meeting Alex's friends, so that sometimes in a group she clung tightly to his arm. Because she was ten years younger than himself, he hadn't minded. Celia's shyness, at the beginning, had been one of the reasons why he fell in love with her, and he was proud of her reliance on him. Only long after, when she continued to be diffident and unsure foolishly, it seemed to him - ­had his impatience surfaced, and eventually anger.

How little, how tragically little, he had understood! With more perception he would have realized that Celia's back­ground before they met was so totally different from his own that nothing had prepared her for the active social and domestic life he accepted matter-of-factly. It was all new and bewildering to Celia, at times alarming. She was the only child. of reclusive parents of modest means, had attended convent schools, had never known the leavening propinquity of college living. Before Celia met Alex she had had no responsibilities, her social experience was nil. Mar­riage increased her natural nervousness; at the same time, self-doubts and tensions grew until eventually -as psychi­atrists explained it - a burden of guilt at failing snapped something in her mind. With hindsight, Alex blamed him­self. He could, he afterwards believed, have helped Celia so easily, could have given advice, eased tensions, offered reassurance. But when it mattered most he never had. He had been too thoughtless, busy, ambitious.

... so last week's performance, Celia, made me sorry we weren't seeing it together. .."

In fact, he had been to Coppelia with Margot, whom Alex had known now for a year and a half, and who filled a gap in his life which had been empty for so long. Margot, or someone else, had been necessary if Alex - a flesh and blood man - were not to become a mental case, too, he sometimes told himself. Or was that a self-delusion, conveniently assuaging guilt?

Either way, this was no time or place to introduce Mar­got's name.

"Oh, yes, and not long ago, Celia, I saw the Harringtons. You remember John and Elise. Anyway, they told me they had been to Scandinavia to see Elise's parents." "Yes," Celia said tonelessly.

She had still not stirred from the huddled position, but evidently was listening, so he continued talking, using only half his mind while the other half asked: How did it hap­pen? Why?

"We've been busy at the bank lately, Celia."

One reason, he assumed, had been his preoccupation with his work, the long hours during which - as their mar­riage deteriorated - he had left Celia alone. That, as he now saw it, was when she had needed him most. As it was, Celia accepted his absences without complaint but grew increasingly reserved and timid, burying herself in books or looking interminably at plants and flowers, appearing to watch them grow, though occasionally - in contrast and without apparent reason - she became animated, talking in­cessantly and sometimes incoherently. Those were periods in which Celia seemed to have exceptional energy. Then, with equal suddenness, the energy would disappear, leaving her depressed and withdrawn once more. And all the while their communication and companionship diminished.