Mr. and Mrs. Eliot had sold the house on Fairfield Street and made the expected move to Brookline, where they lived just down Curtis Road from the other Eliots, Nat and Peg. The sizable brick house had white pillars around a crescent doorstep, a gravel driveway, and a wall of pine trees which prevented them from seeing, or being seen, by the other large houses nearby. Arthur didn’t like the remoteness of Curtis Road. He had been searching for places to write, and over the years had wound up in resorts — the South of France in the spring, Newport in the summer, the Alps in the winter, places not especially conducive to writing, but colorful. Having some money, he could afford this life, meanwhile satisfying a demand by hostesses in need of a single man.

Lilian saw him on his visits home after he’d stopped at Brookline, slept, eaten Rosie’s food, and irritated his father before setting out again to broaden his horizons, always important for a writer to do. He came to see Lilian on Joy Street.

It is tiresome, Arthur said, how all Bostonians think they’re superior to the rest of the world. He lay languidly back against the sofa, having helped himself to a gin at the bar. He was looking thinner than ever, his cheekbones giving him the look of a skull.

I’m afraid, Lilian said, they wouldn’t lower themselves for a comparison.

Exactly, he said. So how do you stand it?

I don’t know anything else, she said.

Arthur ran his fingers along a side table, not lifting his arm. This is nice, he said idly.

Mrs. Parish’s, she said, from the auction.

Arthur nodded.

I do have Gilbert, she said simply. And the children.

I would hardly call Gilbert a saving grace. Arthur sat up. Much as I like the fellow. And anyone can have children.

Gilbert’s a Bostonian and you like him, she said. Course he’s not like the Wiggins or the Fenwicks, still, his family —

That reminds me, Arthur interrupted. I ran into your friend from the war.

Walter? There was a slight change in Lilian’s face.

The one you were so keen on. Arthur lit a cigarette and spoke between locked teeth. I saw him in Monte Carlo — didn’t I tell you? — I thought I did. Anyway, he’s married to a French girl I guess. Rather rich she looked.

I did hear that.

Arthur watched the smoke blow away from him.

And? Lilian said.

That’s all, just saw him. We had a drink. Arthur stood up and fingered a paperweight on the desk.

And how was he?

Fine, fine. Arthur tensed his rail shoulders. He frowned into the blue glass, considering another subject.

Have you been writing? she said.