There had been nothing to foreshadow so tragic an ending to the party—nothing, at any rate, on which Pamela North, who was one of the schoolmates, could precisely put a finger. It was true that Pam, as the party progressed, had increasingly felt tenseness in herself; it was also true that, toward the end, Fern Hartley had seemed to behave somewhat oddly. But the tenseness, Pam told herself, was entirely her own fault, and as for Fern’s behavior—well, Fern was a little odd. Nice, of course, but—trying. Pam had been tried.

She had sat for what seemed like hours with a responsive smile stiffening her lips and with no comparable response stirring in her mind. It was from that, surely, that the tenseness—the uneasiness—arose. Not from anything on which a finger could be put. It’s my own fault, Pam North thought. This is a reunion, and I don’t reunite. Not with Fern, anyway.

It had been Fern on whom Pam had responsively smiled. Memories of old days, of schooldays, had fluttered from Fern’s mind like pressed flowers from the yellowed pages of a treasured book. They had showered about Pam North, who had been Fern’s classmate at Southwest High School in Centertown. They had showered also about Hortense Notson and about Phyllis Pitt. Classmates, too, they had been those years ago—they and, for example, a girl with red hair.

“—red hair,” Fern Hartley had said, leaning forward, eyes bright with memory. “Across the aisle from you in Miss Burton’s English class. Of course you remember, Pam. She went with the boy who stuttered.”

I am Pamela North, who used to be Pamela Britton, Pam told herself, behind a fixed smile. I’m not an impostor; I did go to Southwest High. If only I could prove it by remembering something—anything. Any little thing.

“The teacher with green hair?” Pam North said, by way of experiment. “Streaks of, anyway? Because the dye—”

Consternation clouded Fern’s bright eyes. “Pam!” she said. “That was another one entirely. Miss Burton was the one who—”

It had been like that from the start of the party—the party of three couples and Miss Fern Hartley, still of Centertown. They were gathered in the long living room of the Stanley Pitts’s house—the gracious room which ran the depth of the small, perfect house—an old New York house, retaining the charm (if also something of the inconvenience) of the previous century.

As the party started that warm September evening, the charm was uppermost. From open casement windows at the end of the room there was a gentle breeze. In it, from the start, Fern’s memories had fluttered.