The sea air is good for everyone, even Gregory. Iris peers over the edge of the pram to check on him. He slumbers on, motionless—two small, perfect hands on either side of his small, perfect head. Iris gazes in rapture at the tufts of pale hair, the apple curve of his cheek, the outline of his long, bowed legs under the blanket. A part of her wants to answer Ruth’s argument—to explain that she was never really the little pumpkin of Ruth’s imagination, that the sisterhood is not divided neatly into adventuresome Ruths and retiring Irises, that bravery is woven from all kinds of different fabric and maybe hers is actually the more tough, the more durable. But this story is so important to Ruth—the story of Ruth forever coming to the rescue of a delicate Iris—so she returns to her drawing and doesn’t say a word.

“What are you sketching this morning?” Ruth asks.

“Oh, nothing much.”

“May I see?”

Iris turns the sketchbook so Ruth can see the page.

“Nifty. It’s Beauchamp’s sailboat, isn’t it?”

Iris fills in a shadow with tiny crosshatches. “Not bad, for a Philistine.”

“You used to hate sailing.”

“Oh, I don’t mind so much as I used to.”

“I guess it depends on who’s sailing the boat, then.”

Iris makes a small smile. The morning is cool and so extraordinarily clear, she can almost see the coast of France. But she hasn’t stopped here to see France. She’s stopped because this is her favorite spot, where the cliffs jut out a bit and the soft turf invites you to sit, and where she kissed Philip Beauchamp for the first time. Of course, Ruth doesn’t know that. Ruth doesn’t know a lot of things. In the pram, Gregory starts to stir. Ruth climbs to her feet and adjusts his blanket. She’s transformed into this obsessively attentive auntie—making up for lost time, Iris supposes.

“It’s a pickle, isn’t it?” Ruth asks.

“What’s a pickle?”

“Your husband. Beauchamp. And don’t play dumb on me or anything. I’m not an idiot. You and Beauchamp—the two of you—I know he’s Claire’s father.”

Iris lays her charcoal back in the tin. “Ruthie,” she says.

Ruth turns to face her sister. Hands on hips. “It’s just like you, not to think things through. Everything’s done by the heart, with you.”

“And you, everything by the head.”

“So maybe we’re perfect for each other.”

Iris tries to smile back.

“The kids will be fine,” Ruth says. “You know that, don’t you? They have each other. Even that Marina kid, she’ll come around.”

“And now you’re an expert on children?”