Sylvia takes the basket in both arms with customary protest. “You’ve really spoiled me,” she says, eagerly peeking under the napkin knotted across its contents.

“Just keep the linens and the basket,” Dido adds in reply to Sylvia’s rising noises of concern. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I know—I’ll have my mother take them back with her to St. George’s Terrace,” Sylvia responds. “She’ll be staying there again once we get back. I don’t think I could suffer all four of us under one roof for more than a day.”

Dido manages a stony smile of commiseration, glancing toward the bottom of the orchard, feeling her pocket for cigarettes.

“She’s just loved having your house as a home base, Dido,” Sylvia adds briskly, reddening at her failure to acknowledge the favor before, well trained, despite evidence to the contrary, in the surface conventions of civility. “It’s been so convenient for us. In her last letter she asked me to thank you again.”

“No need,” Dido mumbles and waves one hand, cupping the fingers of the other around the tip of her cigarette as Ted stoops over her, clicking the flame of her proffered lighter.

The shrilling of cicadas drifts from the tall grass in the walled garden. Dido inhales, building a justifiable pause into the brittle niceties. She and Sylvia both swing their attentions toward Ted, who has circled purposefully around the wood-trimmed side of the car, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

“Where’s Bill?” Sylvia asks, glancing around.

“Oh—” Dido answers noncommittally, exhaling and gazing toward the sloping garden. “I think he went to the orchard to put some tools away.” She calls his name in the direction of the trees, where the plums and walnuts sink away down the hill toward a thicket of scrubby oaks. For another moment they wait, hesitating in their good-byes.

“That’s all right,” says Ted, hastily ending the awkward suspense, rounding the passenger side of the idling car to open the door for Sylvia. “Just tell him to ring when he comes through London on his way to New York.” He holds the door while Sylvia settles into the seat with the basket. He walks back around the car, embracing Dido on the way, and while she calls bon voyage, her arms crossed, the ash of her cigarette dangling as she lifts a hand to wave, he releases the emergency brake and engages the clutch.

“Good-bye!” Sylvia calls, beaming with exaggerated gratitude and wagging her arm out the window as the Morris pulls away down the unpaved lane, crushing stone beneath its tires. “Goodbye!” she calls to Dido, who smokes at the gate, nearly eclipsed by the rising cloud of dust.