Nettie, leaning back in a deep chair as the others bent forward to the fire, reflected that Matt’s temperature was, socially, a godsend to them all. Sarah, it seemed, moved with complete ease among children’s temperatures, virus infections, the possibility—not to be ruled out—of measles. Briefly, she took charge of the conversation. “Try not to worry,” she said, implying that one must by all means worry, though possibly not to distraction. The Bairds had four children, all of whose temperatures had, at one time or another, considerably outclassed Matt’s.

She really is quite stupid, Nettie decided, believing—erroneously—that fine eyes could not atone for stupidity.

Looking away from Sarah, she was disconcerted to find Vernon watching her. If he were capable of interpreting her scrutiny of Sarah, she wondered, would he mind? Or was it just that he took an interest in other women? But his interest gave the impression of being so general that it almost amounted to fidelity. And immediately she asked herself, Is Clem like that? Has he done this before? Will he do it again? The last of these questions pained her so much that she left all of them unanswered. Of course with Clem it was not the same at all, utterly different, the comparison was meaningless.… But in what way different?

“I know what’s different,” Vernon said suddenly. “You’ve changed your hair since I last saw you.”

“And since I last saw you,” said Clem, turning a little to smile at her. She thought that his tenderness, after the day’s indifference, was like a warning.

“Clem could try the telephone again,” Vernon said, “before we sit down to dinner.”

When Vernon pushed Nettie’s chair in to the table, he rested his hand, as Clem had, briefly on her shoulder. It troubled her to sit in May’s place, and for that reason she took no responsibility for the meal, allowing the dishes to pass without offering to serve them, behaving as less than a guest. She was grateful to Vernon for requiring—as Clem had predicted—nothing more than a hearer. He seemed content that she should stare down onto the polished table beside her plate so long as her head was slightly inclined toward him. Once, she looked up, and Clem, who was talking to Sarah, lifted his eyes. Studying the table again and tracing the grain of the wood with her finger, she thought there had been no intimacy in his look, only a reflection of her own preoccupation, and a sort of recalcitrance. She felt that she could not breathe properly, and she disappointed Vernon by uttering a sharp sigh. The tabletop bore the damp mark of her lifted finger.

“Of course, I’m an incurable romantic,” Vernon was saying. He made it sound like a disease.

“Of course,” she said.