It was in the cellar, however, that Monica discovered a sheet of stained glass, amidst a pile of debris stacked in a corner. The glass, lightly cracked in several places, measured about three feet by two and was a self-contained work of art: crimson, green, and turquoise panels framing a languorous, stylized fin de siècle lily, of the kind Klimt or Beardsley might have created. When it was scrubbed clean Monica was struck by its beauty and by her rare good luck in finding it. This too is an absolute, she thought in triumph, not knowing quite what she meant.

She placed the glass carefully in her kitchen window, facing south, so that it would catch the morning light. Her first instinct was to telephone Sheila, to call her over to examine it.

7

They were so tirelessly good, so fatiguingly selfless, it was impossible not to admire them: James and Jill Starkie, the Glenkill chaplain and his devoted wife: James in a turtlenecked Highlander sweater of heather-gray and Jill in her orange embroidered hostess gown with a Mexican shawl draped dramatically about her shoulders. James exuded the rich scent of pipe tobacco, Jill a heady, perhaps too concentrated scent of Chanel No. 5. James was tall and thick-bodied and vibrant with good health and good Christian cheer, Jill was nervously exhilarated, visibly trembling with maternal solicitude, magnanimity, gaiety. Her greetings were all exclamations, breathy and urgent: How good to see you! How wonderful you look! How kind of you to come!

James Starkie’s wide white-toothed smile was like a beacon of light, almost too dazzling. And his big hand, clasping Monica’s, was capable of giving, for the briefest of instants, genuine pain. Jill’s welcomes were gentler yet more alarmingly enveloping: she embraced, she nearly hugged, kissing Monica’s cheek (and surely leaving a smear of crimson lipstick), she said with an air of subtle reproach, “It seems I never see you, Monica!”