Nettie took a firmer grip on the tray and walked on down the corridor. “Be careful,” she said over her shoulder to Sarah, who at once followed her with the coffeepot. “There’s a step.” She pushed open the kitchen door with her elbow. “Can you find the light? On the left. Thanks.” The light fell, dazzling, on aluminum saucepans and a huge white refrigerator. “Just put it anywhere. I’m not going to wash them tonight.”

Sarah kept the coffeepot in her hands, but came across the room. “Nettie,” she began, with as much solemnity as haste would allow. “We would be so pleased if you would come home with us.”

Nettie put the tray down carefully by the sink. Taking up the sugar bowl, she walked past Sarah and put it away in a cupboard. “Because of the ants,” she remarked apologetically. She returned to the sink and started to pour away the dregs from the cups. “I don’t understand,” she said. Blankly, she felt this to be true. It was her own stillness she did not understand.

Sarah came and stood at the sink, so that it was impossible not to look at her. She had a flushed, uncomfortable expression and Nettie noticed that her eyes were not only pretty, but even kind. “No, of course. But Vernon feels— People around here gossip so. Unprincipled, really. You shouldn’t be exposed to that.” Sarah grew impatient before Nettie’s empty look. “And, of course, we’d love to have you.” Her voice ran down.

It is really quite easy to have the advantage over people, Nettie thought—if you can be bothered. You just have to keep quiet and look at them. “I’ll have to see what Clem thinks,” she said at last. She finished stacking the rinsed dishes and dried her hands. She exchanged a hopeless little smile with Sarah. “You go ahead,” she said. “I’ll put the light out. Watch the step.”

In the hall, she stopped to straighten a mirror. She felt that she had unlimited time at her disposal. She could hear voices raised in the living room, and for a moment stood still with a child’s pleasurable horror in listening to a grown-up quarrel. She stared into the mirror, exasperated—as Sarah had been—by her own unresponsiveness; to see her feelings reflected in her face would have made them clearer to her. But here was, simply, a strained, alarmed expression made the more unfamiliar by the care with which it had that evening been powdered and embellished.

As she entered the room, she heard Clem’s voice, cold and angry. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“But don’t you think…” Sarah’s voice wavered anxiously. It was her fate that evening not to be understood.

Clem broke in. “Good Lord, she’s like a daughter in this house. What an extraordinary idea. Perfectly extraordinary. In fact,” his voice rose on a short, humorless laugh, “if we didn’t know each other so well, I would say it was—downright insulting.”

“Oh dear,” Sarah said. Vernon had not said a word.