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of chrysanthemums into the room.
    “Oh, Bertha, they just called from Famous Features to say that Mr. Malvern is bringing this reporter out himself. I don’t suppose Taylor told you when he’d be back with Mrs. Sargent?”
    “No, Mrs. Flood. Taylor didn’t say.”
    “Oh, dear! Now you’re sure you understand about dinner?”
    “Yes, Mrs. Flood. Clam bisque with Scharlachberg, 1955. Filet of beef—rare. . . .”
    “Yes, Bertha, very rare. At least one thing we do have in Chicago is meat.”
    “Mushrooms, asparagus,” Bertha continued automatically, “Hospices de Beaune, 1953, field salad and. . . .”
    “Oh, Bertha, you’re such a help! Now I think Mrs. Sargent would like to have drinks in here—the way we always do. You know. Au naturel.”
    “I beg pardon, Mrs. Flood?”
    “You know, Bertha. Just pretend it’s like any other dinner at home. Natural. Even with that man writing down ev-er-y word we say. Oh dear, to have a reporter living right here in the house and Mrs. Sargent not back from Evanston and. . . . What was that, Bertha?”
    “That was the front door closing, Mrs. Flood.” Bertha left the room.
    “Oh, thank heaven she’s here. Mrs. Sargent! Mrs. Sar-gent,” Mrs. Flood called. “Oh. Oh, Allison.”
    “Yes, Floodie,” Allison Sargent said, “it’s only Allison.”
    Even though Mrs. Flood’s eyesight was not as keen as it once had been, she could be forgiven for mistaking Allison Sargent for her mother. When people saw Sheila and Allison together, they could rarely forego some sodden platitude such as “More like sisters than mother and daughter.” It was true that Allison’s physical resemblance to her mother was marked and remarkable. Allison’s coloring, her bone structure, her rather willowy carriage were Sheila’s exactly. But it was inside that the similarity c eased. Sheila’s lights were always turned on; Allison’s were extinguished. “Like a dim carbon copy of her mother,” Mrs.Flood had once murmured during one of her rare moments of original or lucid thinking and then Mrs. Flood had scolded herself for such treachery, had decided that she was quite wrong and thought of it no more. But now, quite unconsciously, when Mrs. Flood addressed Allison, she tried to compensate for the girl’s lack of vivacity by being frantically animated herself. The effect was that of talking to a sullen child, to someone rather hard of hearing or to someone not quite bright. It also made Mrs. Flood appear about twice as idiotic as she ordinarily did. “Well, I’m glad somebody else is here to be on the welcoming committee,” Mrs. Flood said loudly. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping your mother.”
    “Neither can I, Floodie,” Allison said flatly, “What’s she doing today? Autographing books? Being interviewed on television? Sitting on a panel with Mrs. Roosevelt and Helen Keller? Being elected best dressed woman in. . . .”
    “Allison! You’re simply dreadful,” Mrs. Flood giggled. Any hint of disloyalty to Mrs. Sargent shocked her deliciously, made her feel naughty and conspiratorial, like a girl smoking after lights out in boarding school, “If you must know, your mother is speaking to some Catholic women in Evanston.”
    “Long live Martin Luther!”
    “Allison!” Mrs. Flood gasped. Disloyalty was one thing, but downright treason was quite another. However, Mrs. Flood giggled dutifully. She liked to encourage the girl into thinking that she had a sense of humor. Boys like a sense of humor—up to a certain point—and Mrs. Flood wanted Allison to be popular with boys. Now she changed the subject and moved into safer territory. “Well, dear, tell me, what kind of day did you have?”
    “Oh, stimulating,” Allison said, removing the little mink jackether mother had just given her. “I drove into town and bought a red dress. This one.”
    “Hmm,” Mrs. Flood murmured. “Very pretty. Didn’t they have it in another color?”
    “Mother told me to buy a gay red