“Maisie?” Mama called from the passage. “Are you ready?” In answer, I opened the door to them, and without speaking, turned back into the room to lower the gas by the dressing table. I caught Papa’s stare as I passed by the mirror, and suddenly I wanted it all to stop—this silvery slide into men’s eyes, into the story told generation after generation of breathless lovers brought into the hushed house where efficient, silent women polish the brasses of a twilight dream. I leaned and looked again at the girl in the glass and shivered. Wasn’t I just like Halcy after all? For here I was—dressed to play the romantic heroine. How easily was I cast. Stop! I wanted to call to Mama and Papa. But my parents had begun to descend the stairs, and all I could do was to follow them.

The guests were assembled in the sitting room, awaiting the summons to dinner, the entire party, it seemed, now bent on forgetting, or not mentioning, the tragedy of the morning. My gaze lit on Cynthia and Ruth arranged together in the far corner in a diorama of fetching young womanhood, slowly turning the pages of one of Mr. Audubon’s big picture books, exclaiming at the mysteries of the nature painted there and wondering aloud at the various names. I could see they played at a charming lack of interest in the several young men standing by the fireplace. Dr. Lewes and his wife conversed with the Harringtons, and it was to this group that my own parents moved. I drifted to the piano behind Cynthia and Ruth and stood there awkwardly, fingering sheet music with a great degree of absorption.

“Oh look!” I heard Cynthia exclaim, and I turned round.

An elderly woman flanked by two strikingly fair young men had appeared in the doorway. And much to my surprise, Papa rushed forward to greet the trio, shaking one man’s hand vigorously and bowing to the woman. A brief conversation ensued and then Papa led the three over to Mama and the Harringtons.

“May I present Mrs. Lanman of Boston?” Papa said. Mr. Harrington bowed to the lady. “And her two sons, Mr. David Lanman”—the smaller one bowed self-consciously—“and Mr. Jonathan Lanman.” The latter took Mr. Harrington’s offered hand and nodded politely to the female members of the group.

“Mr. Jonathan Lanman,” Papa announced, “is a new partner in the line. He will be the fourth man in the New York office.”

Mr. Harrington congratulated Mr. Lanman on his post. “And,” he continued jovially, “what a glorious stroke to join the fray down on Wall Street, rather than to continue languishing among those Boston straitlaces!”

Mrs. Lanman smiled, but her son stiffened visibly. “My father was of old Boston stock, sir, and I was proud to ‘languish’ there, as you say.”