“But that’s partly what worries me,” Uncle Luigi said. “On average, the prices of stocks are now over thirty-two times their earnings.”

The clerk smiled, to show that he was impressed that this little Italian should know all this.

“We would agree that future gains may not be so steep, but we don’t see any reason for the market to come down. We think it’s moved to a higher plateau. And I can assure you, the investment is still coming in.”

Uncle Luigi nodded thoughtfully. What the broker said was true. People were still piling money into the market, but they were being encouraged to do so. A year ago, this dapper man had politely informed him: “We have been dealing with you for many years now, sir, and your investments are excellent collateral. We should be glad to lend you extra funds if you’d like to increase the size of your portfolio.” Luigi had declined the offer, but he wondered how much of the money now invested in the stock market was borrowed. The greater the borrowing, the more like a bubble the thing must become.

“So you advise me to hold on to my stocks?” he asked the broker, after a pause.

“We expect the market to rise soon. I’d hate to see you miss out.” The clerk smiled. “I’m buying myself, I assure you.”

Rose Master made a very big decision that night. It wasn’t easy, and she’d been thinking about it for some time. It might, she reckoned, affect the family’s future happiness and position more than they imagined. For clever though her husband and her son were in their different ways, she believed she had more foresight.

It concerned the cottage in Newport.

Charlie came to dinner that evening. She’d been rather hurt by her son that summer. During the whole time, he had come to Newport just once, and his father had undoubtedly dragged him there on that occasion, telling him, “At least come once, to please your mother.” Of course when he did come, he’d been absolutely charming to everyone. But that didn’t really make her feel any better.

She was getting seriously worried about him nowadays. He was nearly thirty and still living in Greenwich Village, on Downing Street—though why anyone would want to live there she couldn’t imagine. He was pretending to work for his father and the last she heard he was writing a play. She didn’t know what kind of women he was seeing, and didn’t want to. He probably wasn’t getting enough exercise of that sort or any other, to judge by his waistline, and he was drinking too much. It was time her son took a pull at himself. And it was time for him to get married too. After all, what was the point in doing all you could for the family if there was no future generation to carry it on?

All in all, she was distressed, and she felt she should speak her mind. But William had cautioned her.