“That is a very fleshy abstract, Miss Thomas,” commented Bart. There was that sound again in his voice, a murmur, a low, low sighing, and I trained my ear upon it—a rapid beat I wished to touch, but could not. “All that human sorrow because of the way the wind blows?”

“Yes, Mr. Hunnowell,” I said with mock severity. “How little you know the world.”

He almost made to reach for my hand, then remembered just in time who sat behind. So the caress came in his answer and sang from his tone. “I little value that knowledge of the world.”

“What other sort of knowledge is there?” Mama broke in impatiently, rattling the colored spools of thread in her basket as she sought another strand, still refusing to look at me.

“Well,” said Mr. Cutting into the breeze above Mama’s head, “I think I’ll pursue the one certain form of knowledge”—I believe I saw his hand rest upon my mother’s shoulder just slightly as he stepped away—“to be found upon the morning steamer. Mr. Hunnowell”—the man looked at Bart—“would you care to come and get the papers?”

It was not a question. But Bart would not leave until he had a kind word from Mama, he said. I drew in my breath. And he began to banter her there upon the step, coaxing her to look up at him and smile. “Hush your foolishness,” she said, finally relenting and smiling at the piece upon her lap, “and please go down with Mr. Cutting.”

And for the instant she smiled, we three were joined. For that instant, I forgot it were a broken joining—from the first. For when Bart did rise finally to follow Mr. Cutting, walking swiftly down the lawn in the direction of the wharf, Mama’s voice behind me was bare, all the woolly laughter shorn.

“Maisie, you must stop this.”

“I am sorry you are distressed, Mama.” I took one of the steps toward her, advancing near where she sat. “But I do not think Miss Grange’s story will require much time.”

“I do not mean that.” Now she looked straight at me. “I am sure you will tire of all that soon enough.”

“Mama—”

“No, Maisie, I mean this flirtation.” Her words rapped out. “You must stop this flirtation.”

A sickening draft blew through me. “With whom, Mama?”

She took the steps between us with surprising vigor, putting her hands on both my shoulders to hold me in place.

“Do not think to playact with me, Maisie.” She rested two fingers beneath my chin. “You have made a promise—no”—she took a breath—“you have made a vow.”

“I never vowed,” I answered stiffly.

“Not in words, but in gesture”—she tipped my chin up, forcing me to look at her—“and in kind.”

“Mama.” I struggled under her gaze. I would make her understand, I would tell her. “Everything is suddenly altered.”