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think in racial terms, but it seems to her that black people are always running late. Maybe it’s a bit of aggression toward whites, maybe with each other they’re as punctual as the six o’clock news. She watches Daniel, swiveling his head around like an adulterous owl.
    “Daniel?” She pats him on the arm. “You look a little crazy.”
    “I do?” He blinks, as if just awakened. And then they see them, moving quickly along Manchester Avenue, hurrying, arm in arm.
    “Hello!” Daniel calls out, eagerly raising his hand as if he were a schoolboy with the right answer. Iris is wearing a gray overcoat, black pants, boots, a kind of African hat. Everything seems a couple sizes too large, she is like some goofy kid wearing her mother’s clothes. Not so with the husband. Hampton—his skin pale toffee, his emanation of coiled energy, his aura of wealth—is wearing a sumptuous, practically edible-looking cashmere coat, a paisley silk scarf with tassels. He has those round little glasses, steel framed, gentle, scholarly, that Kate identifies as deliberately reassuring, nonsexual, a little eunuchy, really, the signifying eyewear of the black professional.
    Daniel kisses Iris’s cheek, and Hampton, seeing this, plants a quick kiss on Kate, with all the tenderness of a clerk stamping a bill paid.
    The four of them make their way into the church. St. John’s is for Leyden’s upper-class Episcopalians, and for those who like to pray with their betters. It’s chilly, Spartan, like a lodge high in the Austrian Alps. All that woodwork, the fresh white flowers, and the Episcopalian flag that reminds her of the Red Cross. She and Daniel, and then Iris and Hampton, find places in a back pew. The orchestra is already tuning up as they arrange themselves. Daniel and Iris seem to be intent on not making the slightest eye contact.
    Kate tries to keep her attention riveted upon the orchestra and the chorus throughout the concert.The conductor is Ethan Greenblatt, president of Marlowe College, a handsome young academic superstar with an explosion of curly hair and a fussy bow tie. He is pushing the musicians through the piece at breakneck speed, as if afraid of detaining the audi-
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    ence past its attention span. But from time to time, Kate must glance at Daniel. His eyes are closed, but she’s sure he’s awake. Hampton takes Iris’s hand, brings it to his lips, while she stares intently ahead. And then, Kate sees Daniel glancing at Iris.Their eyes meet for a moment, but it has the impact of cymbals crashing. It is a shocking, agitating thing to see. It’s like being in a store with someone and watching them steal something.
    Afterward, the four of them walk to the George Washington Inn, where Iris has made dinner reservations. The Inn is redolent with Colonial history—low, beamed ceilings, wormy old tavern tables, an immense blackened fireplace. A high school girl serves them a basket of rolls, then comes back to fill their water glasses. She pours Hampton’s last and accidentally fills it to the very top; in fact, a little of it laps onto the table. “Oops,” she says, but Hampton looks away. His jaw is suddenly rigid. Iris touches his knee, pats it, as if to calm him down. With her other hand, she is dabbing the little dime-sized puddle with her napkin.
    A moment later, a waiter appears to take their drink orders. Daniel and Kate are used to this waiter, middle-aged, vain, and formal. Hampton, however, sees the waiter’s extreme tact as an extension of the bus-girl’s spilling his water, and he orders a vodka martini in a surly voice.
    “Use Absolut,” he says. “I’ll know if the bartender uses the house brand.”
    Iris looks down at her lap; when she raises her gaze again she sees Daniel is looking at her, smiling. It startles her into smiling back.The two of them seem so happy to be gazing at each other, and Kate feels like Princess Kitty standing at the edge of the room and noticing the joy that floods their