“They’re analyzed, of course, and Dr. Ragsdale gives them things to distract them. Ice-skating, knitting, growing herbs in the kitchen window.”

Philip’s grandmother was silent with disgust and then, in order to hear no more of Hopestill’s nonsense which she was pouring out by request to her companion, she turned to Philip and said loudly, “I want you to give your father a talking-to, Perly. He’s set on selling the Bedford Road house. I would as soon cut off my hand as see it taken over by a stranger.”

“And so would I,” said the young man in sincere alarm. “What gave him that idea?”

“I can’t imagine,” returned the old lady. “But between ourselves, I have never felt your father had much sense of history.” Philip whispered, “You have never felt he had much sense of any kind, have you, Grandma?” But Mrs. McAllister was not going to agree to such a judgment of her son in my presence, and she went on. “I have always wanted you to have the house when you marry. Did you see the enchanting little water-color Amy Brooks did of it for me last autumn?” Then, turning to me, “You must make Philip take you to see it some day this spring. You will not find a more charming place in all New England.”

The conversation at the far end of the table was lagging. Hopestill, getting up, said, “We must go to see the house some afternoon. It’s my aunt Lucy’s favorite next to her own on Pinckney.” She directed to me an ambiguous smile which I took to mean that she had not quite made up her mind to relinquish Philip altogether, but that she would let me know in good time if I might go alone with him to inspect the house.

“You three,” said the younger Mrs. McAllister, “you three are inseparable, aren’t you?” I knew by her tone and by the look of injury on her turned-down lips that she liked me no better than she did Hopestill.

“We are separating now,” said Hope. “But Philip and Sonie will meet again at the Countess’.”

As I was taking leave of my hostesses, Philip and Hopestill went into the hallway to get our coats. When I started out to join them, lingering at the door a moment to receive a final compliment upon my robust health from the old lady, I heard Philip saying, “I don’t need a procuress.”

2

The Countess’ “Saturday” was a formal dinner party for rarely more than ten, followed by a soirée at which one met chiefly Germans and Austrians who had had the foresight to leave (and in some instances, to leave with their money) in the early days of Hitler’s regime. There were, in addition, titled personages from other parts of the world: a Korean prince, a Russian baron, a Polish count. The Bostonians who came were either charmed by the illustrious company or outraged, the latter group maintaining that “these refugees” were impertinent and arrogant because they had the crust to criticize the United States and even, with supreme bad manners, to imply that it was only through luck, not through wisdom, that we were not ourselves ruled by a Hitler or a Stalin.