What Might Have Been begins with the sun blazing down on an otherwise lazy Sunday, the kind of day designed for doing nothing at all. Yet, Dolly, with her characteristic whimsy, declares that the flower pots lining one side of the terrace would look infinitely better on the other. Her suggestion, impractical and ill-timed, carries the soft tyranny of someone who always gets their way through sheer conviction. Archie, ever obliging and faintly exasperated, takes up the task without protest. The rest of the party, including the narrator Samuel Carter, watches from the shade, voices full of idle commentary and mild sarcasm. What unfolds is less about pots and more about people—the strange tug between desire and obligation, between appearances and what lies quietly beneath.

Carter’s dry observations serve as the lens through which we watch the others. Nellie Phaeton, seated beside him, turns the pot-moving episode into an allegory for love, asking why people do foolish things for romance and how much effort is enough. Their conversation tiptoes between humor and melancholy, touching on self-doubt and social expectation. Carter, wry and self-deprecating, confesses that he avoids romantic entanglements not out of high principle, but self-preservation. His tone suggests amusement, but there’s a hint of truth beneath his laughter—a man who’s observed too much to fall easily, yet perhaps wonders what he’s missed. Nellie, ever insightful, doesn’t challenge him, but lets the silence between comments say what her words do not. In their exchange lies a quiet acknowledgment of the roles people play and the risks they often avoid.

Then, in a moment that surprises even him, Carter rises and begins moving the flower pots. It’s a gesture that holds no practical necessity and is driven by neither love nor obligation—only an odd desire to act. Dolly’s face registers amusement, and the others glance up with interest, as if witnessing a character step out of a familiar role. The physical labor, performed without complaint, becomes a symbolic gesture—a wordless protest against indifference or perhaps a quiet claim on agency. Carter, usually detached, briefly immerses himself in the world he critiques. His action is simple, but layered with meaning, blurring the line between jest and sincerity.

When the task is done, Dolly appraises the result with her usual flair for mischief. She declares, quite seriously, that they looked better where they were before. No apology is offered—just a whimsical shrug. The absurdity of the moment hangs in the air, but the tension eases into laughter. It’s clear to everyone that the pots were never the point. The conversation turns, as conversations often do, from the ridiculous to the nearly profound. Carter is teased about his rumored interest in Mrs. Hilary, an idea he finds both ridiculous and oddly revealing. The suggestion forces him to examine the stories others assign to him, and the ones he might secretly entertain himself.

Dolly, ever watchful, catches his hesitation. Their exchange is charged but light, a dance of implications and retreats. She watches him, eyes twinkling, and then—without instruction—begins to move the pots back. This small, silent act is more than reversal; it’s a quiet response to Carter’s gesture. Perhaps it’s acknowledgment, perhaps deflection, but it marks a shared understanding that words hadn’t touched. There is no grand resolution, no confession or kiss—only the sound of pottery scraping gently across stone and the sun casting long shadows over a terrace that now holds a little more meaning than it did that morning.

The chapter is not a love story, but it hints at the possibility of one that almost was, or could be. It questions how far people will go for affection, for recognition, or simply to break the monotony of routine. Carter, reflective and skeptical, moves between irony and sincerity, unsure where he belongs. Dolly, with her cleverness and spontaneity, remains an enigma—perhaps a muse, perhaps a mirror. What might have been is never said aloud, but it lingers long after the laughter fades, tucked quietly beneath a terrace scattered with flower pots and unfinished thoughts.