Jill was in her late thirties but dressed and behaved like an older sister to her daughters. She had dyed her hair a flamboyant carrot color, and wore it fashionably curled; her eyebrows were penciled in dramatically; her lips shone with an opaque gloss; her clothes were unfailingly exotic—caftans, saris, sandals that laced to midcalf, long skirts in peasant hues and textures, hooded Icelandic wool coat-sweaters, Indian smocks of startlingly transparent muslin. Jill was glamorous without being at all attractive: the face beneath the theatrical makeup, inside the frizzed orange-red hair, was somewhat hard and plain. What fascinated Monica about Jill was the woman’s remarkable sense of herself—her idea of herself as privileged, bountiful, capable of lavishing blessings upon others—a kind of emissary for Christ, perhaps, or for the “Good News” of the Gospels. “To think that all these boys—these wonderful boys—these vulnerable yearning young souls!—are given over to our trust: to think that they look for guidance to us!” Jill once said, clasping her hands before her and staring at Monica. “Only think: only think of the situation—the opportunity—for saving souls, for changing lives, for doing good. James and I give thanks to God every day and every minute of our lives, that we are so blessed, in being at the Glenkill Academy!”

And though Monica recoiled from Jill’s manner, and from the queer self-congratulatory nature of her words, she had to admit that there was truth to what Jill said. Teaching in this excellent school was a true privilege; being entrusted with such outstanding students—or, in fact, any students at all—was a remarkable opportunity.

“Isn’t it a miracle, Monica?—our being here?—with them?” Jill said pleadingly; and Monica replied, embarrassed, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

Sheila despised Jill Starkie, whom she called, simply, the chaplain’s wife, and Monica had once amused Sheila by fantasizing a sordid private life for Jill: for wasn’t she the stereotypical “happy” and “fulfilled” woman who, as you become acquainted with her, discloses, by degrees, appalling secrets . . . ? Miscarriages; bouts of mania and depression; a child or two hooked on drugs; a faithless husband, or, better yet, a husband who is secretly homosexual; an addiction to Librium or afternoon drinking. But, alas, nothing of the sort was disclosed: Jill proved supremely sunny, supremely happy, at all times, at any hour of the day, with never a lapse, never the slightest hint of weariness or self-doubt or cynicism. Here was a human being, Monica thought critically, who truly was the person her appearance suggested.

“No doubt I could learn a good deal from her,” Monica thought, “—but what would it be?”