Miranda said: “Oh no, not at all,” and seated herself opposite James. At the other end of the table, a fourth place had been laid for Russell.

“Of course, time is getting on,” Constance continued, “if you want to go to church.”

“Church?” inquired James.

“Miranda does go to church,” Constance rebuked him, the soul of open-mindedness.

“I went once,” Miranda told him, “when we were here at Easter. I was the only woman without a hat. I felt like the Infidel.”

“I’m sure, my dear, you get credit for good thoughts.” Constance took Miranda’s cup. “Like Abou ben Adhem,” she added kindly.

“The sermon was very dull,” Miranda said, placatingly.

“I don’t doubt it.” Having filled the cup, Constance passed it back. “I always think, don’t you, that Catholic churches must be much more interesting than ours. So much more going on. Protestants are so docile—turning up in pairs on Sunday, like animals entering the Ark.” After an insufficient pause, Constance went on: “Well, Miranda dear, you must go to church just as often as you like—if you really do mean to spend the summer here.”

Miranda, unresisting, drank her coffee.

“Isn’t Russell coming to breakfast?” James helped himself to the last piece of toast without waiting for the answer to this question.

“He’s still sleeping,” Miranda said. “I’ll take a tray up to him when we’ve finished.”

Constance felt—and not for the first time—that Miranda was indulging Russell. Which may well be the cause of his trouble, she added to herself. Aloud, she pointed out that there was still hot coffee in the pot. “If you want to call him now,” she suggested.

Miranda almost sighed. “No,” she said. “I think he should sleep. He has a long journey ahead of him tomorrow.”

“My dear, he gets on a plane in New York and gets off it in Athens. That isn’t so strenuous, after all.”

Miranda thought it sounded utterly exhausting, but said nothing.

James said to Miranda: “Are you going to New York with him?”

“No. I’ll drive him to New Haven and see him off on the train.”

“Why don’t you go to New York?”

Miranda said bravely: “Because he doesn’t want me to,” and began to collect the empty dishes within her reach.

Damn Russell, thought James; everything connected with him led to trouble and hurt someone’s feelings. Rather, hurt Miranda’s feelings—and that’s all I care about, he said to himself—looking at her briefly, so that his mother wouldn’t notice, but seeing everything: her meekly attentive face, still faintly smeared with night cream and dominated by her wide, now colorless mouth, the straight black hair she had already brushed into a careful line along her shoulders, and the rose-colored dressing gown that opened on the white curve of her breast. Damn Russell, thought James.