The lunch basket was set on the flat part of the rock. People settled themselves on blue cushions with their books, others removed their shoes and merely looked out over the snaking water. Mr. Eliot in his shirtsleeves adopted his vacation pose, draping his tie over one shoulder. He’d woken up that morning with a swelled-up arm and decided that a tarantula had bitten him. In the shade of the pines slumped the figure of the boathand.

Lilian stood at the rock’s edge in a black bathing costume. The water beneath her was dark green. She watched the ripples on the surface, dark lines blending with lighter lines of reflected sky, and became thoughtful. She still longed for something, and told herself it wasn’t Walter Vail. She tried to imagine being alone forever, like Aunt Tizzy, and thought, I can do it, but began to feel like a stone. If only she could meet a nice boy, she wouldn’t care about anything else, just as long as he was honest and good and knew how to laugh and didn’t have any airs. That was all she wanted. The tide was at its highest. She dove in.

How can she do that? said Mrs. Glover, a widow who often accompanied the Eliots on their excursions. Her neck trembled as she shook her large head.

Mrs. Eliot, her back erect, turned and idly followed her daughter’s form moving out in the water. A large hat cast shade over her, a summer throw lay on her lap. Lilian doesn’t feel the cold, said Mrs. Eliot. Never has.

You know what they say about a girl who loves to swim, said Aunt Tizzy. She was dressed for the Riviera in a peacock and green bathing outfit with matching turban.

What’s that? said Arthur, suffering visibly to be with his family.

Never mind, said Mrs. Eliot with a tight mouth. Mr. Eliot’s attention remained directed at his book.

It means she loves to dance, doesn’t it? said Mrs. Glover, looking baffled.

Among other things, murmured Aunt Tizzy. She tucked at her red hair.

I wonder if Tommy Lattimore loves to dance, said Arthur.

Doubt it, said Aunt Tizzy, returning his smirk. Her rouged cheeks stood out as vivid spots.

Tommy Lattimore is a very nice boy, said Mrs. Eliot, acting as if she were only half in the conversation. She’d come to agree with Mr. Eliot about the one during the war, the one from New York, not being good for Lilian.

Is this Lilian’s beau? said Mrs. Glover. One does miss everything when one goes away.

Arthur shrugged. He comes every day, he said.

Mrs. Glover rustled. Are we talking about an engagement? She addressed the shaded figure of Margaret Eliot.

Lilian has not mentioned anything to me, Mrs. Eliot said.