“Good night, then, Fraulein,” says Wilfred, in the grave voice of somebody trying not to laugh. Elfriede refuses to catch his eye.

“Good night, Mr. Thorpe.”

She and Elfriede proceed to the second-best spare bedroom. Helga stops her at the door.

“Of course, we will discuss all this in the morning,” she says, and shuts the door in Elfriede’s face, before Elfriede can even observe that it’s already morning, according to the clock. So she returns to her bedroom, hoping to discuss all this with Wilfred first, but dawn’s beginning to make itself known outside the window, and he’s already left for his own room. Propriety.

Elfriede imagines some reprieve, because Helga surely won’t rise until noon. But Helga’s Helga, you know, and appears in the breakfast room at eight-thirty sharp. The children are shocked. Aunt Helga’s face is creased, but her eyes are bright. “Good morning, my dear boy,” she says to Johann. She walks around the table to plant a kiss on her nephew’s astonished forehead and straighten his collar. She passes a swift eye over the remaining small fry and says briefly, “Good morning, Elfriede. Mr. Thorpe. Children. Nurse.”

Elfriede rings the bell for the housekeeper. “Good morning, Aunt Helga.”

“Good morning, Fraulein,” Wilfred says amiably. He rises from his chair at the opposite end of the table from Elfriede. The master’s chair. Charlotte sits on Elfriede’s left. An empty chair to the right. Helga tries to settle herself before Wilfred can reach this chair and pull it out for her, but he’s too quick, too clever. She swallows her chagrin and forces out a word of thanks.

“We will take a turn in the garden after breakfast,” she says to Elfriede, as the housekeeper arrives with fresh coffee.

At last, at last Helga’s spleen is set free. Elfriede, wandering among the hibiscus with her garden shears, pretends to listen. Helga gets such pleasure from her lectures, after all, such luxurious satisfaction from her exhibitions of piety. One by one, snip snip, Elfriede lays the hibiscus in the basket and nods along. She meditates on this human craving for moral authority, more powerful perhaps than the craving for sex. Why? What power do we gain from believing, asserting, tirelessly burnishing our virtue? To shame others, that’s the point of life. When Helga pauses for breath—the heat is laying on fast this morning—Elfriede hands her a hibiscus and says, “But there’s nothing improper in my friendship with Mr. Thorpe. He’s a houseguest, that’s all. He stays in the spare bedroom.”

“Do you take me for some kind of fool?”

“I don’t know why you would imagine such a thing, that’s all. Maybe you possess some special insight into such matters?”