When she told me what it was she meant to do， my<br >initial instinct was to look at my watch. This， mere-<br >ly a reflex on my part， an unfortunately timed one<br >as I realized at once， she completely misunderstood.<br >The smiling defiance tempered by apprehension<br >with which she had announced her news to me<br >swiftly drained from her features to be replaced by a<br >moue of sulky disgruntlement. She was galled， non-<br >plussed too， as I coulci see， that I had chosen no less<br >than the crucial point ka our interview， that at which<br >she had played her trump card， to display what she<br >presumably interpreted as my rude， fidgety impa-<br >tience with her. Yet how could I convey to her that<br >what I sought on my watch face was not the time<br >but， as it were， time; that what I saw and all I saw<br >(insofar as I saw anything at all) were the second<br >and minute hands executing their immemorial hare-<br >and-tortoise pursuit around the dial， the former<br >advancing at a strictly measured pace， the latter， all<br >wily invisible stealth， regularly outdistancing it from<br >pit stop to pit stop? How was she to know that I had<br >been waiting nearly seventeen years for someone to<br >say to me what she had just said - for it， for this cir-<br >cumstance， to come about， as if it were finally its<br ><br >