Fern laughed. Her laughter was rather high in pitch. It had a little “hee” at the end. That little “hee,” Pam thought idly, would identify Fern—be something to remember her by. As Jerry’s habit of running his hand through his hair would identify him if, about all else, she suddenly lost her memory. (As I’ve evidently begun to do, Pam North thought.) Little tricks. And Fern puts her right index finger gently to the tip of her nose, presumably when she’s thinking. Why, Pam thought, she did that as a girl, and was surprised to remember.

Her host stood in front of her, wondering what he could get her. She had, Pam told him, everything.

“Including your memories?” Stanley Pitt asked her. Pam noticed a small scar on his chin. But it wasn’t, of course, the same thing as—as running a hand through your hair. But everybody has something, which is one way of telling them apart.

“I seem,” Pam said, “a little short of memories.”

“By comparison with Miss Hartley,” Stanley said, “who isn’t? A pipe line to the past. Can’t I get you a drink?”

He could not. Pam had had enough. So, she thought, had all of them. Not that anybody was in the least tight. But still . . .

Over the other voices, that of Fern Hartley was raised. There was excitement in it. So it isn’t alcohol, Pam thought, since Fern hadn’t had any. It’s just getting keyed up at a party. She looked toward Fern, who was talking, very rapidly, to Jerry. No doubt, Pam thought, about what I was like in high school. Not that there’s anything he shouldn’t know. But still . . .

Fern was now very animated. If, Pam thought, I asked whether anyone here was one cocktail up I’d—why, I’d say Fern. Fern, of all people. Or else, Pam thought, she has some exciting surprise.

It was now eight thirty. A maid appeared at the door, waited to be noticed, and nodded to Phyllis Pitt, who said, at once, “Dinner, everybody.” The dining room was downstairs, on a level with the garden. “These old stairs,” Phyllis said. “Everybody be careful.”

The stairs were, indeed, very steep, and the treads very narrow. But there were handrails and a carpet. The stairway ended in the dining room, where candles glowed softly on the table, among flowers.

“If you’ll sit—” Phyllis said, starting with Pam North. “And you and—” They moved to the places indicated. “And Fern—” Phyllis said, and stopped. “Why,” she said, “where is—”

She did not finish, because Fern Hartley stood at the top of the steep staircase. She was a slight figure in a white dress. She seemed to be staring fixedly down at them, her eyes strangely bright. Her face was flushed and she made odd, uncertain movements with her little hands.