Despite the accomplishments of Irene’s diplomatic parents, or perhaps because of them, Lilian’s parents were not close to the Minters. Mrs. Eliot found Irene’s mother a fright who shouted at dinner parties and wore low dresses, so didn’t think it a surprise that her daughter was odd. That Irene had talent meant less than the fact that Mrs. Minter was half-Italian. Mr. Eliot thought the debonair Paul Minter an ass. But Lilian had always found Irene odd in an interesting way, with her marble-smooth skin and glassy black eyes and quick reactions. The Minters’ house on Charles Street had European touches with a round marble hall in front and a trellised grape arbor in back where they used to eat outside on Sundays. After Irene married Bobby Putnam, she brought those European touches to their own house on Beacon Street, putting Spanish iron railings in the hall, growing lemon and olive trees, and draping rugs over the tables. Lilian liked the light and the paintings and wished she had the courage to try it herself. She made an attempt at draping some fabric around a hassock and hanging tassles off the valances, but it clashed with the rest of the room and she took it down before any of the ladies saw. Though she did manage a simple lemon tree on a gravel tray in the front hall which to her carried an exotic air.

Lilian called on Irene Putnam one day and found her not unusually in a distracted state. It had been a year since Sis Sedgwick’s luncheon when she’d cut her hand and seemed not to mind, and since then Irene Putnam had been carried out of a few dances and discussed now and then over tea. She’d spent the past Christmas in bed with the shades down. One day she would be raccoon-eyed with worry, and on another intent in her old way, as if a thin white flame were consuming her.

Today she was wearing the cornflower smock she sometimes painted in, though her easel was not out. She was biting her fingernails. Lilian convinced her to send for some tea, but Irene went to the bar shelf and made herself a gin.

I can’t seem to get anything done, she said. She laughed. Her face fell.

What exactly … ? Lilian said.

Irene drifted about the room, fretting at her wrist sleeve. Little Julie — she’s — I suppose it’s not something I ought to — but you know how girls are — it’s the boys I don’t understand — but she’s only seven for God’s sake — I don’t — oh, oh have some tea, Lil — so rude of me, let me …

I’m perfectly fine, Lilian said.

Yes, said Irene, smiling at her. You are. She sat down. Didn’t Lilian ever feel that she was, how could she say it, in the wrong place?