I can remember how, as the long afternoons of that spring drew to a close, I would from time to time ask my mother what she was doing in the evening, and how she would tell me of some engagement that, under previous circumstances, would have sounded dull or remote or too adult for my attention; and I can remember how she would say, casually, as if it didn’t matter, “You’re welcome to come along,” speaking in a tone halfway between question and comment, between a favor granted and a favor requested. “You’re welcome to come along,” my mother would say, and I would feel—I think we both would feel—that strange enormous quality that time could take on between us, and I would decide to go along to dinner with some rather remote friends of my parents’, or to a benefit for some good cause, and I would cancel peremptorily whatever considered plans I might have had for the evening.