Suddenly, for no reason that Bobby Putnam could see, Irene tore past him out of the bar, a pale streak in her fluttery dress — Lilian knew the dress, they’d bought it together, she remembered there were small orange buds on the bodice — and when Bobby Putnam followed her out, not right away, not hurrying, he knew Irene’s hysterics and didn’t want to get caught up in them, he spied her across the stone square. She stumbled near a row of flipped boats lined up by the beach. Black palm shadows fanned across the square lit up by one ancient streetlight. Irene hit at him when he came near her and tripped in her sandal heels, cursing him. Oh, she was in a bad way, said Bobby Putnam, very tight, and Lilian saw that his eyes were troubled. So it had affected him after all, Lilian thought. But it was the only time she saw the look. Afterwards, telling the story, there would be a hardness in his eyes, as hard as his straight teeth, as smooth as his dry jaw. She did not wish Bobby Putnam ill, but she wanted to see signs of his wife in him; Lilian wanted to see something in him she could like. She saw it only that one time. Men, she thought, were expert at covering up — women showed more on their faces — though she wondered if the effort of covering up didn’t secure the disturbance and preserve it.