She told Monica that she and her husband had known the couple who had owned the house some years ago; in fact, they themselves had owned the property for a while, for a reason never altogether clear to her: tax purposes? But now it belonged to someone who lived in Philadelphia and who couldn’t be bothered with it—a pity, since it was so beautiful, so private. And lonely. “You’ve just moved out from Manhattan, have you?—someone was telling me,” Sheila said. “That horrible woman, the chaplain’s wife. She was talking about you.”

Monica laughed, surprised. She felt an immediate sisterly pleasure at Sheila’s intimate tone, but really didn’t know how to respond to it—the chaplain’s wife, Jill Starkie, had been extremely kind to her since her arrival in Glenkill, and seemed quite clearly a warm, generous, well-intentioned person, like her husband, James; it was hardly proper for Monica to pass judgment on her. Certainly Mrs. Starkie was a rather florid personality, given to hand-clutching and embraces, and an enthusiasm that could be most fatiguing, but Monica was grateful for her warm regard. So she replied carefully to Sheila’s remark, supplying only a modicum of information: yes, she had just moved from New York, she had taught part-time for years but never in a preparatory school, it was all quite new to her, the immersion in the school’s life, the intensity . . . wonderfully challenging. . . . The change in her life had been badly needed. . . .

Sheila strode about the living room, a lithe, trim figure in her stained jodhpurs and white cotton shirt, curious as a child, examining the rattan furniture, the mismatched tables and chairs, the fine-grained Scandinavian bookshelves, the pale green carpet Monica had bought at a remnant outlet in Edgarsville for thirty-five dollars. Though Sheila said nothing Monica’s heart lifted with the hope that Sheila approved of the things, the jumble of textures and colors and styles, one or two costly items amidst the “bargains.” She didn’t in any case sneer at them.

Sheila drained her iced tea and set the glass down on a pile of student papers. She said, idly: “A change badly needed? Some sort of trouble with a man? You have that dazed precarious look, it’s one of the visible symptoms, but charming in its way, as if you were carrying your life in a pyramid of eggs. . . .” She made a gesture, turning her hands palm upward, extending the fingers. “. . . Though the image isn’t very likely. But you know what I mean. Someone happened to mention that you were recently divorced and that Glenkill wasn’t a very hospitable place for single women. All in the same breath. But it is a hospitable place for a single woman, don’t be deceived. Don’t let them coerce you into feeling lonely.”