She was tired, she said, teasingly, of hillbilly truckers with no last names; she ached for some social life, a little adventure of the kind she and Morton had frequently had amongst the local gentry.

“You’re being preposterous,” Monica said.

“You can’t mean it,” Monica said.

Sheila laughed, Sheila ran her hands through her hair zestfully.

“But you’re first on my guest list,” she said, reaching out as if to poke Monica, or to pinch—though she did neither, “—unless of course you decline. Yes? No?”

More soberly she told Monica that she hadn’t given a party of this kind—a genuine party—a dinner party—in years. When Morton was in the right phase he quite enjoyed these parties, he thought them the reverse of real life, like photograph negatives. The local gentry, not an artist among them; that is, not a serious artist; just as the farmers were all gentlemen farmers and country squires, playing at a rural life, keeping herds of useless Brahman cattle simply for the look of them, transforming meadows into putting greens, that sort of thing. She wanted to cook for an entire day, seriously. She wanted, she said, to wear a long dress and to be a hostess.

Monica had a dinner engagement with Keith for that evening and though Sheila said indifferently, “Fine—bring him along,” Monica decided against it. She wanted to see Sheila as the mistress of Edgemont, she wanted to examine that other Sheila, with no distractions.

The first surprise of the evening was that a man named Hen—Hennessey—a neighbor—of whom Monica had never before heard—was Sheila’s partner for the occasion, her “date,” so to speak; judging by his manner, his ease, his general high spirits, he was virtually cohosting the party with Sheila. “Monica dear, this is Hen,” Sheila said in a bright false voice, drawing Monica forward as if she were a recalcitrant child, “—Hen is an old, old neighbor—I mean an old friend—old and dear, aren’t you, Hen?—we’ve known each other for ages but we rarely see each other, it’s a shame. Hen, Monica Jensen, Monica is a new friend—a very dear new friend—she’s renting that place Morton and I used to own, that house, you know, on the Olcottsville Road, yes, the one the Dorrs lived in—Monica is teaching at the Academy, isn’t that interesting? All those adolescents—”