Arthur bolted out through the swinging pantry door back into the kitchen to thank Rosie for the roast and the cake. Casey the butler and Hildy with her starched front would be sitting down to their dinner with Rosie at the enamel table, and Mary at the sink would have started on the dishes. Above them, up the narrow back stairs, were their rooms jumbled together — the halls rugless, a lamp in each room — a place Lilian and Arthur used to spend a lot of time, lying on Hildy’s chenille spread, cranking her music box, asking if she’d ever get married. Hildy, who’d raised Lilian and Arthur and now looked after Mrs. Eliot’s clothes as well, said she was far too old for that business. She was from Norway, with a proud manner and wide arms which in their vigilance had sometimes threatened to smother the little Eliots. Lilian had been drawn to the warmth of the kitchen where she watched Mary ironing with a blue-veined arm or Casey dismantle the epergne for polishing. Then as she got older she went there less frequently and knew little about Mary’s sailor beau or about the new girl Shirley who came in for the linens. Now when she saw the back rooms it was to thank Rosie for dinner, or for lemonade on a hot summer afternoon, or for Rosie’s cocoa in the winter, but even then the visits were shorter.

There is a theory, said Aunt Tizzy, licking her dessert fork, that a father and his son never truly get along.

Mr. Eliot regarded his sister with disdain. Nat and I got along with Father splendidly, he said.

It was hard to imagine Uncle Nat’s disagreeing with anyone. He was a bland, forgetful fellow with a squeaky voice, married to horsy Aunt Peg who looked like a man.

You, of course, are the exception to the rule, said Aunt Tizzy, winking at Lilian.

The Henderson girl ran off with a fellow from Connecticut, said Mrs. Eliot from down at her end.

The news was greeted with a gaping stillness; no one especially cared.

Is that Isa’s daughter? said Aunt Tizzy finally. Though she no longer lived in Boston, she still knew the families.

That’s right, said Mrs. Eliot. I always thought her a sensible girl.

Sometimes, said Aunt Tizzy with the air of one who knows more of the world than the others present, a girl who is not an idiot can behave like one, given the right situation and the right boy.

Why isn’t this gossip? Lilian said.

Matter of general interest, said Mrs. Eliot.

There’s no reason a son cannot be polite to his father, said Mr. Eliot. No reason in the world.

Errant genes, said Aunt Tizzy. Must be.

Yes, said Mrs. Eliot. I’ve often wondered how you and Edward could have turned out so differently. She smiled.