Cate says, “But the thing is, with Vita, age didn’t completely subdue her. She didn’t fly off to Paris anymore to ravish her girlfriend in small hotels and then go out on the town dressed as a wounded soldier. That stuff was over. Her affairs became more discreet. She stayed closer to home. And then eventually she got old and retreated to her castle. But even then she could spin a web for women who came around. One victim was a tourist she lured off the garden tour. The bus went back to London without that lady.”

Her father laughs. He hasn’t read up. All the Vita stories are new to him.

Seneca says, “All those passionate letters, all those walks in the garden in the moonlight. Then discarding one poor lover to take up with the next, then writing another mailbag full of love letters—does seem comic. Is the play a comedy?” Seneca always treats Cate cordially, politely, but it’s clear she thinks Cate is postponing adulthood.

“I think it’s more a minor tragedy,” Cate says. “Sorrow in the key of human frailty. Virginia Woolf’s broken heart in particular, which she couldn’t really afford on top of her mental illness. Those birds were speaking to her in Greek in one ear while Vita was whispering in the other. She shouldn’t have started anything frivolous with Virginia. Virginia should have been off-limits.”

Seneca nods. “The play I would like to see is the one where Vita gets sent to the coal mines. Ah. Sorry. Perhaps miners are too much on my mind these days.” But this is not an apology. It’s tiny clipping—the sound of a single hair being cut. Cate doesn’t take it personally. Seneca would like everyone to shape up, be more serious. She wishes Alan did something more important than picking colors. It’s difficult to take offense at Seneca’s delicate prodding. She wears her erudition lightly, wages her battles against tyranny without fanfare. You can’t dislike her; Cate has tried, but it’s just not possible.

The scariest thing about Seneca is how she x-rays the vague, general version of Cate’s life that she presents for inspection. She sees that much of Cate’s movement through life has been thinly disguised stasis. If Cate, conversationally, positions herself at a crossroads, Seneca sees these would only be crossroads if there were actual roads crisscrossing the place where Cate stands. She comprehends, without really knowing, the slightly sad particulars of Cate’s life. She can see the small pile of accomplishments, the reduced circumstances.

Cate’s father has to work the next day, so Seneca offers to take Cate on a small outing.

“Something new since you were last here. A dream pool for you.” This is typical of Seneca, this attention to the details that make up Cate. She is probably this way with everyone, which doesn’t at all devalue it.