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“I’m good at all of it too, and what’s more, I think I need it. The dinner parties and committees and even the war work—it isn’t enough anymore, Hugo. You must understand,” she said.

He looked down and for a moment she thought that maybe he understood, but when he lifted his head his gaze was like ice. “Sell the shop. Give it away. I don’t care, but your association with it ends tonight.”

“If you will just listen to me—”

“No wife of mine will serve other women! You are demeaning yourself.”

She laughed in disbelief. “Demeaning? You call what I do at the shop demeaning? That’s rich coming from you, Hugo.”

“Sylvia—”

“Perhaps before you begin slinging accusations at me, you should take a long, hard look at yourself. You have been assigned to London for weeks, yet I’ve hardly seen you except when we had supper with Claire and Rupert, and what an evening that was. You won’t come home, and when you are here—on those very rare occasions—you cannot wait for the moment when you can leave again.”

He stretched his neck, as though the collar of his uniform was suddenly too tight. “That isn’t true.”

“You’re able to sleep in your own bed and kiss your wife good night every evening if you wish. Do you know how many men would trade the world for that privilege if only they could?” she asked.

“I have certain obligations,” he said, looking away.

“What is more important than your wife and marriage?”

As the silence stretched between them, Sylvia’s last illusions shattered. If he wasn’t going to fight for their marriage, she wasn’t going to pretend any longer.

She broke into a stride, making for the dining room door.

“Sylvia? Where are you going?” he called after her.

She went straight to his study and wrenched open the drawer that held his love letters. She began pulling them out, tossing them onto the desktop one by one.

“What is the meaning of this? Why are you in my study?” he demanded from the doorway.

She stopped, chest heaving, and braced one hand on either side of his green leather blotter.

“Who is she?” she demanded.

Hugo’s eyes fixed on the letters, but he said nothing. She picked up an envelope and flung it at him. It sliced through the air and bounced off his thigh before falling to the carpet.

“Who is she?” she repeated, louder now.

Hugo stepped into the study and closed the door behind him, even though they were the only ones in the flat.

“You are making a spectacle of yourself,” he said.

“So I’m a spectacle? I’m absurd? Is that what you really think of me, Hugo?” she raged.

“The neighbors will hear.”

“I am standing here telling you that I know of your affair and all you can say is the neighbors might hear?”

Hugo sighed. “If you will just take a moment to compose yourself, I can explain.”

She picked up one of the letters and ripped it out of its envelope, the paper tearing. She didn’t miss his wince.

“ ‘My darling,’ ” she read out. “ ‘I cannot tell you how horrible it is waiting for you. I lie in bed and think about your touch. Your clever hands sliding—’ ”

“Sylvia, that is enough,” he barked, his composure breaking.

“Who is she?”