There was a kind of beauty in this imposition of order, Jean thought. She was a conscientious gardener herself but had never managed to achieve results like these in the few hours a week she could spare for the job. All her time seemed to be spent holding back chaos rather than on these refinements.

“It’s all Howard,” said Gretchen. “We are dividing the chores very rigidly. I’m housework, he’s garden.”

“Well I’m both,” said Jean. “Neither to a very high standard, I’m afraid.”

She couldn’t now recall what, if anything, she had previously revealed about her domestic situation, so she mentioned now the fortuitous intervention of Mrs. Melsom in making her visit possible.

Gretchen was mortified. “I had no idea this would be difficult,” she said. “Your mother would have been very welcome to come too, naturally.”

“That’s kind of you, but sometimes it’s nice to get away by myself.”

“Of course. Is your mother so very infirm that she can’t be left?”

“Not exactly infirm, but she hardly ever leaves the house. She’s fine when I’m out at work because she understands that it’s a necessity. But outside of that . . . She’s never said in so many words, ‘You mustn’t go out and leave me.’ It’s more subtle than that. I feel guilty if I’m out enjoying myself when she isn’t.”

“She wouldn’t want to stop you having fun, surely?”

“I don’t think she really believes in ‘fun.’ Not since my father died.” She had said too much. This was not teatime talk. She plowed on: “She’s too old for change. Now, it’s all about comfort and routine and taking pleasure in tiny treats.” For a moment Jean had a ghastly sense that she was describing herself.

“Routines can be very useful,” said Gretchen. “Especially if you are trying to run a household. But they have to be”—she drew her hands apart—“elastisch.”

Jean laughed. “A dressmaker’s metaphor.” Something about this conversation stirred her memory. Gabardine, that was it. She lowered her voice. “Margaret was telling me about her angel voices the other day. I didn’t know quite what to make of it.”

Gretchen smiled. “Perhaps it’s not so unusual. Children have such imagination.”

“I didn’t,” said Jean.

“But to me, Margaret is already a miracle, so this is far from the most extraordinary thing about her.”

“I suppose. I just wanted to check that it was something she had discussed with you.”

“Oh yes. I didn’t think it was anything to worry about. They seem very harmless voices.”

“Did the idea of angels come from Margaret herself, or was that something you suggested?”

“That was me,” Gretchen admitted. “I thought it was more reassuring to imagine that the voices were coming from heaven.”

“The idea of a guardian angel is rather appealing,” Jean agreed. She felt something approaching envy for those who could believe such comforting nonsense.

“It’s not so very different from an imaginary friend. And we have all had those. As long as Margaret isn’t troubled by it, I choose not to worry.” A wasp landed on her arm and she flicked it away with a polished pink fingernail.