At this point James Starkie interrupted helpfully to say, in a slightly too-hearty voice, that Monica was a friend of Sheila Trask’s.

“Yes, Monica has become friendly with Sheila Trask,” Jill repeated, speaking a little breathlessly. Her nervous fingers fluttered at her throat and an enormous stone, a diamond?—a zircon?—winked and gleamed on her right hand. “So we were thinking—I mean, I was thinking—just the other day—I haven’t had time to speak with you about this, Monica—but I was thinking it would be an excellent opportunity—I mean for Glenkill—for the school—to invite her over to speak to the boys, the boys who are interested in art—and we could all have dinner together—here, or at the Greenes’—I know Harry and Ruth would be delighted.” She paused for the briefest of moments but only to draw breath. “. . . Some of you remember when Morton Flaxman visited?—a long time ago—James and I were very new—Mr. Flaxman gave a marvelous lecture—a kind of free-association talk—he had a wonderful sense of humor—salty and profound—of course he did drink a bit—but he was really a genius, as everyone says—so much energy and enthusiasm and expertise—though, as I say, I think his work is a bit overrated—and certainly overpriced. Some of us couldn’t believe what the trustees paid him for that piece by the library!—of course it was commissioned—and I suppose it was very special—but, still—prices in the art world are so astronomical, I suppose. I wonder if Sheila Trask commands that sort of fee? I suppose not—considering she’s younger—and a woman. It would be fascinating to hear her speak and to become acquainted with her, wouldn’t it? I don’t believe she came along with her husband that evening,” Jill said, glancing at her husband, frowning, “—no, I’m certain she didn’t. The Greenes invited her, of course, but for some reason she didn’t come.”

Monica felt obliged to speak, to defend her friend. But for some reason—a minute streak of malice, perhaps?—she said nothing. She was making crosshatched indentations in the tablecloth with her dessert fork.

“They’re all a bit reclusive, the artists we’ve known,” James Starkie said. “Even the artists who’ve taught here. You have to respect that—it’s part of their nature. I respect that.”

“I respect it too, James,” Jill said quickly, “but Sheila Trask lives so close by, it’s a pity not to draw upon her. If she met our students and saw how bright they are, how talented, and how sweet—aren’t they sweet, some of them?—I know she’d be impressed. Do you think you might bring up the subject to her, Monica?—for sometime after the Christmas break?”