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returned.”
     
    “I nearly didn’t come,” said Francesca, “but I didn’t want to leave you wondering.”
    “You’re only just coming from lunch?” asked Vinnie, pouring Francesca a cup of tea as the latter helped herself to cake. “I hope it wasn’t as dreadful as the look on your face suggests. I wonder sometimes why you put yourself through this ordeal. You only have yourself to blame.”
    “I know,” said Francesca with a sigh. “I thought with time things might improve between us.”
    Neither the substance nor character of Maggie Jerome’s discourse had changed in four years. Francesca wished she had been stronger in those fatal hours following the worst calamity of her life. A year at the settlement had restored her to health and given her strength to return to her home. What remained was to see whether her relationship with Maggie Jerome could also be restored. Luncheons with Maggie had been a tenuous olive branch. Besides, scenes were more difficult in public.
    “Maggie doesn’t still blame you for leaving, does she?” Vinnie asked.
    “It’s more the fact that I deprived her of someone else to order around. She still harps about the flat—says it wasn’t ‘dignified’ for a lady in my position to share a flat with two others in that part of town. And then, of course, there’s Edmund.”
    Maggie quarreled with Francesca and Jerry by turns about Edmund Tracey. For Francesca herself, she gave Tracey credit for having withstood four years’ interlude of illness and grief, and wanting her nonetheless. If Maggie would only let Nature take its course, however meandering and slow, all might be agreeably concluded. Still, by protesting so vehemently solely to stave off Maggie’s meddling, Francesca worried that she jeopardized her chances of attracting a suitable man. At nearly twenty-eight, she feared that if something didn’t happen soon, she indeed would be taking her comfort in old age in the work of the settlement house.
    “Have the workmen gone?” said Vinnie, introducing a welcome change of subject.
    “The last of them left this morning, thank goodness. I can’t wait to arrive home this evening to fresh paper and paint and no scaffolding anywhere. I’m almost proudest of the kitchen, though Mrs. Howell was still fussing about the new stove when I left to meet Maggie.”
    “Has Maggie seen the changes?”
    “No,” said Francesca. “Nor will she anytime soon.”
    “You can’t stop her from calling.”
    “Oh, can’t I?” said Francesca with a sidelong look. “I’ve already planted that seed by saying that I’m attacking the other rooms myself. She wanted to help, of course, but I declined her offer with thanks. You and your parents must come for tea one day. But you come before then, certainly. I think you’ll be pleased with the result.”
     
    The business of the hotel agreeably concluded, the men were chatting amiably when Connor perceived movement on the other side of the screen. The Fair One gathered up a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, a handbag, and an umbrella and turned to look around her, as if to check around her table one last time. Another waiter approached and proffered the glove, which drew an exclamation of pleasure and a nod from its owner. Connor tried to picture Blanche in the alabaster and wrought-iron sanctuary of the Fountain Terrace, gossiping with a society friend over tea, but couldn’t feature it. The Terrace’s elegant but restrained lines seemed contrary to Blanche’s passionate nature. Hard to tell though, thought Connor, especially when “contrary” might be coined to describe Blanche’s primary operating principle.
    The companions walked and talked together, on terms of equality, yet how unequal. The Fair One seemed unaware of the attention she drew. She swayed as she walked and inclined her head toward her friend, listening, turning to look at her. He watched them move from the Fountain Terrace to the ladies’ entrance and on out of