It meant belonging to the conservative group in town, the people who lived elegantly but quietly in their hideous old redbrick houses, exchanged calls, gave stuffy dinners with wonderful food and—at least until the war—drove about in ancient high limousines.

Not that Mother wasn’t wellborn. She was, but our money had come from trade, and to the Lelands trade was simply out. Not even Strathmore House, built on the edge of town on what once had been my grandfather’s country place before the city grew up around it, had wiped out the smell of wholesale groceries years ago. It was just as well—Mother would rather have died than be conventional.

Larry did not find his hat, and came back scowling.

“Nice crowd you had here,” he said. “Somebody traded in my new opera hat for that thing on the floor.”

Alma looked unhappy.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I suppose it’s my fault. I found it on the floor in a back hall and sent it to the men’s room. It wasn’t wet then, of course.”

Larry picked it up gingerly.

“You owe me for a hat,” he said to Mother. “I’ll take this home to remind you of it. And to show Isabel what she missed!”

Mother yawned.

“She missed a good dinner,” she said.

She had relaxed by that time. She put out her feet and inspected them. They looked small and swollen, and vaguely pathetic. Larry saw them, and leaning over patted her bare shoulder.

“All right, old girl,” he said. “Forget it. Go to bed and get some sleep.”

I went out with him. The driveway was empty now, and the early fall air felt cool. It was dark, because of the dimout. The only light was from the open door behind us. I remember leaning against a pillar, and Larry’s putting an arm around me.

“Pretty bad, wasn’t it?” he said.

“Awful.”

“Don didn’t come?”

“No. He’s like Isabel. He doesn’t like our brawls.”

No use telling him I had called Donald Scott myself and asked him. No use telling him the night had been a total loss for me because Don had refused. Politely, of course. Don is always polite. Anyhow, Larry wasn’t interested. He stood looking down toward his house, which stood not far from the gate at the foot of the lawn.

“Look, Judy,” he said. “You and Isabel get along pretty well, don’t you?”

“I like her. I don’t know how well she likes me. She’s not demonstrative.”

“Still, you do go around together.”

“Oh, that. Yes. She likes Alma better, you know.”

He seemed embarrassed. He got out a cigarette and gave me one.

“Have you noticed any change in her lately?” he asked. “I’ve thought she was looking tired. She doesn’t say anything. You know the Lelands. They don’t talk about themselves. But there’s something wrong.”

“She’s thinner. I’ve noticed that. I’m like Mother. I wondered if she was going to have a baby.”

He shook his head.

“It’s not that,” he said. “I wish to God she’d talk to me if anything is bothering her.”