Hennessey was tall, wide-shouldered, handsome in a slightly florid way; in his early fifties, perhaps. His handshake was strong, his smile gratifying. Within a few seconds he had muddled her name (“Mona?—ah yes: Monica”) and mixed up the Glenkill Academy with another local school, the Quaker school in New Hope (“That’s an excellent place too, my boy Josh went there”), but his gallantry toward Monica, as Sheila’s friend, assuaged her feelings; and made her feel, for a while at least, that she had not made a mistake in coming.

And the other guests, the “horsey” set, the country squires and their wives—they too were extremely interesting; and certainly well-spoken. Like Hen they were warmly friendly with Monica, asking her questions, the same sort of questions (“Do you like it here,” “How long have you been here,” “How is the Academy—we hear such conflicting reports”), flattering her with their attention though (as Monica well knew) none of it could be sincere.

Hen made Monica a strong drink, which she accepted with gratitude; and as she sipped it, nervously, contemplatively, she decided it had been naive of her to be surprised that Sheila was on such companionable terms with a man she had never mentioned to her. Hen, Hennessey, an old dear friend and neighbor, with a five-hundred-acre farm off the New Egypt Pike; Hen, a man of considerable attractions; quite clearly wealthy. Perhaps the two were lovers, or had been lovers at one time: what of it?

No doubt there were many such men scattered through the world—lovers, former lovers, confidants, old dear friends—a network of people who had in common their connection, licit or otherwise, with Sheila Trask.

Am I envious, Monica wondered.

Am I going to be bitter, Monica wondered.

Then, closely watching Sheila and Hen together, noting the high gay insistent tone of Sheila’s voice, and Hen’s studied gallantry, his somewhat too affable flirtatious air, Monica decided that the relationship was only superficial.

Hen and Sheila, superficial.

Superficial if lovers; if “old dear friends.”

Still, Monica was impressed by Sheila in her role of hostess: the mistress of Edgemont.

Of course the woman was under an incalculable strain—of course she had dosed herself with therapeutic drinks, beforehand—but her performance was controlled, polished—she gave little hint of unease—she was mistress of Edgemont after all, and quite looked the part.