Eugenia said, “I suppose I never considered virginity an enviable condition; and innocence seems no more blissful than admitting you can’t read. I don’t want to be one of those sweet, blank, coddled girls whose highest ambition is their impregnable chastity.”

I made a deathbed appeal with my eyes but Miss Moore must have assumed it was the result of Julia’s cooking because she went on, “I don’t want to be one of those puling, simpering, sterile aunts who worry over the state of their souls if they let the dishes sit. The only approval I want is my own.”

It had crossed my mind by this time that my special evening might very well be crumbling, and I sought to save it by exercising one of my learned words. “I’m sorry you’ve taken such umbrage, Eugenia,” I said.

But then Julia rushed in. “I suppose you want excitement, don’t you? You’re one of those women who can’t stand to be bored, who wish life could be more interesting. I’m frankly sick of things happening every second. Why does everyone have to be famous? Why do they want their names in the papers? What’s so wonderful about being fascinating? I think I’d rather be sweet and blank and coddled and not fuss so much about recognition.”

“Landsakes,” I said. “Nothing I like more than a spirited discussion.”

Eugenia ignored me and said, “Oh dear, I’ve disturbed you, haven’t I? I’ve spoiled your appetite. Pity me for my bad manners. I believe I’d better excuse myself now and go tantalize the bunkhouse.”

She smiled at me when she got up from the table and as she walked down the hall I could hear her exclaim like the most soulful tragedian, “Evil! I embrace you!”

“Well!” I said. “Lot of food for thought tonight, ay Julia?”

Julia was staring at her plate and making an effort not to cry.

I said, “I think if you made an inventory you’d find you two really have a lot in common. You’ve got different philosophies, is all.”

“No,” she said. “I think she just wishes Bob was here.” I reckoned that was true. My brother there would have been a relief to many people.

In late April, Bob and McElhanie made it to the Arizona border and slid their horses down the orange west banks of the Colorado River. They let them drink and crop at the weeds, then pulled them into the river and gripped the saddle horns and lost a mile with the currents as the horses lurched and coughed and swam scared across the red river, leaving California.

The boys uncinched the saddles and lay back in the river grass on their elbows while the horses rolled in the dust. McElhanie said, “My brain’s too awkward for robbery, Bob. My hands are only happy with tools.”

“What’s that mean?”