“Yes, but there is no meaning to be gained simply from the statement ‘Men die.’”

“The meaning lies around the words. Think of your father—or mine,” I added hastily, seeing his jaw stiffen. “Every time I read ‘A man died,’ I think of Papa. And there I am amid the smell of his sickroom, and standing near that mannish nurse who nonetheless held his head so gently while I poured the medicine down. Men die, and I think of Papa. I plunge back down into those hours, the words carrying me to my own meaning.”

“You give away all power of description to the word itself.”

“Yes, I think words hold a very ocean in them, and we can but dip down and pull up the tiniest cup.”

“I don’t think you ought to speak in such a way to Mr. Lanman, dear,” Mama chided after he had departed.

“I am sorry, Mama.” I turned to her. “You are distressed about my talk of Papa.”

“Papa? No, I wasn’t listening to any talk of Papa—I heard only something to do with oceans—but your tone was rather too straightforward, most contentious.”

“I did not think so, Mama.”

“Men do not like to be told straight out what you think; it is too blustery for them from a young woman.”

“My words should fall about him like a gentle rain?”

“Now there it is, Maisie. That”—she mused, careful to describe it, proud of her exactness—“irony.”

“Yes?”

“It is quite deflating.”

“I do not think Mr. Lanman feels deflated by his visits, Mama.”

“No,” she agreed. “Nonetheless, you speak too directly for my tastes.”

“I am sorry for it, Mama.” And I rose and patted her cheek, but the gesture did not convince, for she grasped hold of my hand and looked up at me.

“What people think of you is important, Maisie.”

I withdrew my hand gently.

“We are nothing without the good opinion of others,” she pursued. “When I looked at your father, I could see in an instant what type of woman I was.” She smiled.

“But Mama,” I protested.

“Did I ever tell you how it was your father and I began our courtship?”

I stopped abruptly where I stood. “No, Mama.”

She laid her head back against her chair. “One ordinary afternoon just at the end of the season, I found myself sitting upon the edge of a white settee at the Morgans’ cotillion and looked across into the laughing eyes of your father, who had taken his seat upon the opposite chaise. Between us was set an enormous and odious arrangement of lilies, and I believe my dislike lay unmasked upon my face.”

I smiled at the scene Mama had painted, beguiled by this early history.

“‘You do not like flowers?’ he asked me.

“‘I do not like this arrangement,’ I replied, shy of him. ‘There is no expression in it. Just—’