Lilian had seen pictures of all the dead grandparents in the boxes in the attic: studio envelopes with flared script and embossed violets, people sitting on porches cascading with saucer-shaped leaves, women holding babies, men with pipes, a dog in midair jumping at someone’s hand. Who were they all? Lilian was curious about what they thought and what they said and how they met and how the world had seemed to them then. She was especially interested in Mrs. Eliot’s mother, Lilian Baker, for whom she’d been named. She’d died in childbirth, leaving Mrs. Eliot to be raised by a stepmother and a resentful father. According to Mrs. Eliot, her father never forgave her. Lilian Baker was half-French and in one picture she wore a black dress with satin ribbons undulating over it. There was a blur across her eyes.

Soon they were talking about the war.

Arthur cleared his throat. I was wondering —

Mr. Eliot interrupted him. A man came into my office today. ‘I was wondering,’ he said, and proceeded to chatter on about some nonsense. ‘Are you asking me a question?’ I said. He looked at me as if I were mad. What is this ‘I was wondering’ business? It’s as bad as ‘I don’t know but.’

Mr. Eliot did not practice in the courtroom but treated his dining room as one.

Should I listen to someone who begins his sentence with ‘I was wondering’ or ‘I don’t know but’? Certainly not.

Mrs. Eliot, smiling pleasantly, waved her hand in front of her face the way one waves away smoke.

I was wondering, Arthur repeated, if I might be excused.

Mr. Eliot stared at him stonily.

May I please be excused? said Arthur.

To what purpose?

Harry Cunningham’s having cards.

Alice wouldn’t like that, said Mrs. Eliot, shaking her head vaguely.

Do Alice good, said Aunt Tizzy. A little life in the house.

Arthur let out a whine of exasperation.

Mr. Eliot slipped a watch out of his pocket. Go on, he said, not pleased.