“Perhaps you can step back in again, then,” she said. “Or at least not disturb our musical entertainment.” In the dim light, all Henrietta could see of her was a mound of white hair above, the pleats of a white scarf below. Perhaps her own features were equally erased. Mrs. Thaxter waved vaguely in her direction. “You too,” she added. Did she know whom she was waving at?

SEBBY STEPPED THROUGH the parlor door, but Henrietta, disliking that sense of being summoned, left both him and Daphne behind and headed back to the hotel. She slept poorly, woke when a big storm arrived and the wind shifted and the rain began to pound, and then lay sweating in her sheets before rising to drink more than she meant to of the bottle of brandy she’d brought along for emergencies. By morning the storm had blown away, leaving the shores littered with seaweeds and all kinds of creatures—exactly, Henrietta realized when she woke, what Daphne needed. She rose and dressed hurriedly, but still she was late to breakfast and Daphne, after greeting her coolly, said very little until she’d finished her creamed eggs. Henrietta, pushing her plate aside and signaling the waitress for coffee, said, “I’ll bring extra boxes this morning, and extra mounting paper.”

“No need,” Daphne said. “I’ll manage on my own; I want to concentrate on some particular groups so I can start writing the section introductions.”

“Don’t be angry,” Henrietta said. “I’m sorry about last night.”

Daphne buttered a roll without looking at her. “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” she said. “You seem not to have liked it there; no reason you should. Mrs. Thaxter did ask me back this evening, though, and I’m going to go.”

“I’m sorry,” Henrietta repeated. If that young painter hadn’t egged her on . . . why blame the painter, though, for her own feelings? “I’ll behave better this time.”

“Actually,” Daphne said, tracing the cloth with the handle of the butter knife, “she asked if I’d mind not bringing you.” The little scars netting her hands stood out in the morning light.

Beside them a large family rose, three girls in identical blue dresses watching fondly as their younger brother begged permission to go to the bathing area and their father at first resisted and then gave in. Beyond the open doors the water shimmered, the first boats were launched, the attendants opened the women’s bathhouse and then the men’s, a group of children ran down to the rocks and the little boy, leaping from the last of the steps, ran toward them through the rinsed soft air. What a glorious day!

“You go, then,” she said to Daphne. “I can entertain myself.”

“There’s a concert at eight,” Daphne said, pointing with her knife to the announcements on the bulletin board.