Monica laughed uneasily, pretending to understand. (“What did you mean, Sheila, when you said that something had happened to you—to your body—around the time of your husband’s death?—and that your attitude toward painting changed afterward?” she asked. And Sheila replied without expression, carefully: “When did I ever tell you that?”—and a moment later added: “That’s bullshit.”)

But she was insensitive, even ruthless, about Monica’s private life. In fact it came to seem, as time passed, that Monica’s past was a possession or privilege of Sheila’s, to be dissected and analyzed at length. Especially if the hour was late. Especially if Sheila’s work had not gone well that day. If they were alone together in Monica’s living room with a fire burning—an apple-wood fire Sheila had provided, and kept going—or in Sheila’s country kitchen, white stucco walls and blue and white ceramic tile, copper utensils hanging from a rack, a near-depleted bottle of red wine on the table between them. It might be twenty after twelve, it might be five minutes to one, Sheila restless and impatient and provoking because she’d had too much to drink, Monica herself a little drunk, surprising herself by speaking in a voice she didn’t always recognize. It was an oddity of these visits—she would always remember it—that Sheila’s Irish setter Siegmund would wriggle by inches across the kitchen floor and come to rest, lightly wheezing, with his heavy head on Monica’s foot. (“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Sheila asked doubtfully. “He’s almost twelve years old—he’s lonely, he’s affectionate—very sweet—but sometimes rather tiresome. Do you see those eyes?—more human than mine.”)

Sheila asked questions but (so Monica told herself) she wasn’t prying. She was simply a friend who was very interested in Monica and wasn’t it flattering, to know oneself a subject of interest?—when life was so comfortable and routine otherwise.

Tell me about your marriage, Sheila would urge, lighting a cigarette and watching her closely, pitilessly—tell me why you want to dismiss it as a “mistake.” Why you don’t want to take responsibility for it. Why you imagine you have walked away free.

Monica laughed and pressed the backs of her hands against her face. Was she drunk? So warm, so warmly befuddled? She felt no danger. Well—perhaps she felt some danger. She spoke of her marriage as if it had happened to another person, a fool, a deserving victim, a very young woman. She should have known: Harold had been so amusing in his contempt for homely women, or unkempt women, or women who wore too much makeup, or women whose legs or underarms were stubbled and not smoothly shaven. An affront to him. Yes clearly: an affront to any man who chanced to look in their direction.