Before Madelaine Wigglesworth could answer, a young woman with the innocent look of a milkmaid charged into the library. Where’s the hooch? she said, sounding like a gangster. She drew Lilian over to the bar. Tell me what news you have of Arthur, she said, pouring herself a whiskey. Above her pale eyebrows, braids were laid atop her head, enhancing the peasant impression. Amy Snow Clark looked about fifteen years old.

He’s enjoying the tropic climate, said Lilian.

In their youth, Amy Snow had known Arthur well. She smiled and lifted her glass in a toast.

Being Arthur’s sister was something no one else was, and Lilian was proud of it, feeling she could understand him better than anyone else. Amy Snow had ‘gotten’ Arthur too. Lilian told her he was still mostly in Florida, in Palm Beach, hanging around the track more and more and showing up less at the tennis tournaments and the vacation parties of the families from Boston and Philadelphia. His address changed often: care of the Coulters, the Maddens, then of a gentleman named North. Recently, he’d taken an apartment on his own but had evidently moved — Lilian’s last letter had been returned.

Bayard loathes palm trees, Amy Clark said. He won’t go south of Washington, D.C. Says it’s his Yankee blood.

It’s his Boston blood, said Marian Wiggin, on her way to replenish the carrot sticks.

I can’t see it’s a Bostonian characteristic, said Mrs. Wigglesworth. Look at Harry. I can’t keep him from dashing off.

Gilbert’s not much of a pioneer, Lilian admitted.

Dickie will go, said Marian Wiggin. He just has no curiosity when he gets there.

One could travel alone, I suppose, Lilian said.

The ladies regarded her uneasily.

I guess it depends on where, said Marian Wiggin.

Paris — you could do it, said Madelaine Wigglesworth. Or London. But a woman alone in India — that would be impossible.

Or in Mexico, or Naples, or Russia, said Amy Clark in her gravelly voice. All the interesting places.

Through the doorway Lilian glimpsed Porter standing up in the front row with a frown on his delicate face, disturbed by the scarves coming out from the clown’s sleeves.

I think it’s the men who would rather not travel alone, said Dolly Vernon, who did not let an opportunity go by of pointing out her husband’s devotion to her. Freddie always wants to take me along.

I’m sure it’s your company, said Amy Clark with an edge to her voice.

Dolly Vernon ignored it and smiled. They’re really such babies, men, she said. One mustn’t count on them for too much.

It was odd for Dolly to say. Freddie Vernon was Dolly’s sole means of support; her family had taken a beating in the crash.