It had always been something she took for granted, that Gilbert loved her, and now the unusual thought occurred to her because of this idiotic love story that his love was not necessarily particular to her, that it might have been anyone there in the library with him, anyone else sharing his life, anyone else as long as she was reliable and pleasant and would take care of the house, anyone who would have dinner ready at 7:15, be able to locate his binoculars, leave him alone to his cocktail. It wasn’t she who was necessary to him, but rather anyone born in Boston around the time she was born, anyone who dressed as she did, someone preferring a quiet life, a person with money, someone who would leave him alone. And there were other people like that.

She tried to imagine him loving someone else, and wondered how different it would be. But the way he loved came from him, from Gilbert, not from the person he loved, and she had to admit that the fact of her determined his loving not in the least. Why she could have been Elsie or Madelaine or Marian or Nita Russell for all the effect she had on him. She felt quite superfluous.

I’m going to bed, she announced, standing up.

You do that, said Gilbert. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, his attention was back on the blackened fireplace. I’m going to read some more, he said, though his book was nowhere in evidence.

46 • Concerning Irene

46 • Concerning Irene

THE GENERAL consensus had always been that Irene Minter Putnam, though pretty and talented, was a little strange, and Lilian would have continued thinking so, too, if she hadn’t taken the water color class one summer in high school at the Museum of Fine Arts and gotten to know Irene then. Irene never seemed to pay attention, but remembered everything the teacher had said, mostly to disagree, something Lilian admired.