LILIAN SAT with a book in the cheery light of the living room, staring at the same paragraph over and over again, feeling ill, wishing she’d never met Walter Vail, wishing her father had let him come to dine, and wishing she’d never arranged for him to be knocking on her french doors at any moment. The Christmas tree was up in the corner, lit with candles, and the room had a milky glow. Outside the night was clear, and through the black windows of the ominous doors she could see clumps of snow in ghostly shapes in the garden.

Finally the tap came, it was rather soft.

Lilian sprang up. She had worn an old dress, a favorite green one with white bands, to feel that it was herself he was seeing and not something wrapped in pretty new things, and had not brushed her hair, wanting to appear natural. She wore her collars loose, never below the collarbone, and had good straight shoulders. The only real jewelry she had was a locket with a picture of her parents on one side and Hildy on the other which tonight she wore close to the skin.

She went to the door, feeling her throat thickening, and the cold came in when she opened it. Walter Vail had a look of wonder as if he were bringing her the happiest news and immediately she was glad he’d come.

We have to stay quiet, she said.

Did you have a nice dinner without me? Walter Vail whispered.

Having to whisper, they stayed close. Lilian took him on a tour of the room, ignoring that he’d been there before with Arthur. They gave rapt attention to each inconsequential thing, analyzing Uncle Nat’s shadow boxes and giving much consideration to the titles of the burning ship prints. Walter Vail listened, absorbed, while Lilian pointed out who was who in the framed photographs on the tables and told where the carved birds had come from. He stood near as they examined the ostrich egg set on a little ring stand which Aunt Tizzy had brought back from Africa. Lilian turned her face — his was very close to hers, smiling.

Shall we sit down? she said. It occurred to her she was not showing an interest in what he was thinking.