AT THE Crooks’ garden party one saw the same people year after year. Dolly Cushing made sure to have a new hat for it, and Jane Olney simply changed the ribbon on her old one. Lilian wore a flower in her belt. The Crooks served the same lemonade, set out the same sliced beef, and put the round tables in the same places on the terrace. Everyone went out to Brookline for it. During the war with the scarcity of young men, the gathering was more like a ladies’ tea party, more funereal than festive. Now, with the war over, there was relief and an air of sadness for the boys not home. The women stepped over the grass, sinking down in their heels, light dresses fluttering against their shins. The men rocked on their heels, and children jumped off the stone wall. Everyone was aware of the difference between the last time they’d tasted deviled eggs at the Crooks’ and how it was now. Charlie Sprague was there on crutches, and Fellowes Moore still hadn’t gained back the twenty pounds he’d lost. Everyone was especially conscious of the absence of Richard Lattimore who used to tie napkins in shapes for the children, and of Eleanor Crook’s fiancé who had not made it back.

Lilian wandered down the tightly landscaped garden. She saw Winn Finch sitting with his brother on a stone wall. He’d been a beau of Irene Minter’s, not like her usual beaux. He stood up as Lilian came near.

I hear you’re in medical school, Lilian said. Is it as nasty as they say?

Nastier, said Winn. His brother, whose name she couldn’t remember, sat silently by.

Your father forcing you into it? said Lilian. Dr. Finch was a quiet, unassuming pediatrician.

Actually, he tried to talk me out of it, boomed Winn. He had a big person’s loud voice and gestured with large hands. But there are too many doctors in my family — can’t escape it.

The younger brother made no effort to join in the conversation, but sat there with his hands in his pockets, squinting up every now and then. His aloofness gave Lilian a peculiar feeling: she felt he was judging her. Perhaps the conversation was dull, but this was a party after all and if one weren’t willing to converse then one shouldn’t come. She didn’t always want to make an effort, she might have preferred to sit quietly by, but one needn’t be sour.

Later, she ate with Jane Olney, who was questioning with great earnestness in her deep level voice Mr. Crook’s brother who was associated with U.S. Intelligence.

We heard you had great adventures over there, Jane said.

Mr. Crook had spilled some mustard on his front which swelled out like a barrel. It’s mostly boring business, Mr. Crook said. Nothing for young ladies to be interested in.