The guests lingered a long time over their drinks. When the Brunsons drank, it was neither in the manner of my father and mother who had been maudlin or gay by turns, nor in the manner of Miss Pride whose indulgence at specified hours was less for pleasure than for the observation of custom. With them, it was a ritual which employed its own argot and its own paraphernalia. They drank whiskey high-balls made with ginger-ale, out of glasses decorated on the outside by a horse’s head which, on the inside, underwent a sly metamorphosis into a naked woman. At the end of the third drink, Dr. Brunson would say, “Well, I guess this one can’t be told in mixed company. No, no, I can’t do it.” But he was quickly persuaded that the ladies were not so easily embarrassed, that they themselves could tell much worse, and he would tell a story, usually with a medical background. I, passing the canapés, could not understand it, but I could not have been more shocked, for the laughter that exploded at its conclusion was as brazen and knowing as the look on the face of a small boy who has just chalked an obscene expletive on the sidewalk.

Tonight, in addition to drinks beforehand, the guests were served wine at dinner and they dallied at the table an unconscionable time. Maudie had complained early in the evening, “Somebody keeps spiking that grape juice I have to drink to keep my strength up. Why, Momma dear, that there’s so all-fired potent, like the feller says, you could float a sledge-hammer on top of it,” and she had staggered out of the house the moment the dessert was served. It was after ten o’clock when I got home, and I was surprised to see the light still burning in the kitchen, but more surprised, when I entered, to find my mother idle for the first time since she had taken up fancy-work. She looked up, smiling.

“What kind of soup did they have, darling?”

“Chicken,” I said, warming my hands at the stove. “It’s cold, Mamma. You’ve let the fire go nearly out.”

“It snowed hard, didn’t it? A big deep snow, wasn’t it? And did they have a salad?”

“Yes, and chocolate soufflé and two kinds of wine.”

“Ah,” said my mother. “Ah, how nice! But tell me, Sonia, sweetheart, how deep is the snow?”

“It’s terribly deep. In some places it was up to my knees and there’s a terrible wind.”

“It’s funny that you came home alone.”

“Why? Did you expect someone?”

“Oh, no.”

I was taking off my galoshes when she said, “Ivan went to meet you. It was snowing, but he didn’t care about that. He only thought about seeing his precious Sonie.”

“When did he go?” I cried.