When Olivia inhaled, the taste of the smoke brought back foolish memories . . . of hiding with her sister behind an elm tree in Saratoga with pilfered cigarettes and a pack of cinnamon gum. They were memories from another season—a season when the two of them had shared clothes and secrets and sly remarks.

How never-resting time does lead summer on . . .

—So, is he as boring as he seems?

—I’m sorry? asked Olivia.

—Your date, said the blonde. Isn’t he the one who wears the big white hats?

Olivia laughed.

—Wilmot’s not a date. It’s more of a work dinner. But yes, I suppose he is the one who wears the big white hats.

—Well, every time he squints at the horizon, I fall asleep.

Olivia laughed again.

—I think they call it the strong and silent type.

—They can call it whatever they like. But from where I was sitting, he looked more like the go-on-and-on-and-on type. Do you ever get a word in edgewise?

Olivia extended her arm in an ironic flourish.

—Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice . . .

The blonde raised a questioning eyebrow.

—Shakespeare . . . , Olivia confessed. Courtesy of my mother.

—What else did your mother teach you?

Olivia considered.

—A lady never finishes a cigarette, a drink, or a meal.

The blonde nodded her head in a show of familiarity.

—My mother told me that it was more important to be interested than interesting.

—Have you heeded her advice?

—Only as a last resort.

Olivia and the blonde were both silent—reflecting for the moment on motherly advice and other monoliths. Then Olivia held up her cigarette to show that it had been half smoked, and, with a smile of goodhearted resignation, she dutifully tamped it out.

AS THE WAITER CLEARED Olivia’s unfinished entrée, Wilmot was explaining the insignificance of the marathon when compared to the fifty-yard dash.

—A marathon is really a contest of endurance, he was saying, not of athleticism. You’ll often see a topflight sprinter excel at a variety of sports, but a great marathoner will only excel at one. And there are whole miles in a marathon that have no bearing on victory. Like the eleventh, or the twelfth, or the thirteenth. But I think we can safely say that in the fifty-yard dash, every footfall counts.

As Wilmot spoke, he rubbed the tablecloth with the flat of his hands. Back and forth they went in the spot where his plate had been, as if he’d been asked by the maître d’ to keep the linens smooth. And Olivia realized that he didn’t want to be there either. He too was fulfilling an obligation—playing his part in this orchestrated pair of Maid Marian and Wyatt Earp.