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I hear that speech again, too,” Geoffrey remarked.
    “We hear rather a lot of one another’s hobbies around here,” said Louisa, smiling at Elizabeth. “Why, Charles, is that the
1812 Overture
you’re humming? Have you taken up classical music?”
    Geoffrey snickered. “Tell her about covalent bonding!”
    Captain Grandfather looked up from
The Sailor’s Journal
. “Can’t a man read in peace around here?”
    “Probably not,” said Charles cheerfully. “I’m turning on the television in five minutes. They’re having a special on physics.”
    “Nuclear subs?” asked the old man hopefully.
    “No. Sorry. Atomic reactors.”
    Captain Grandfather sighed. “I think I’ll say good night, then. Getting on for ten o’clock, anyway. Louisa, shall I have one of these young scoundrels walk you across the street?”
    “No, Dad. Just come and turn the porch light on for me. I’ll be fine.” She stood up to leave. “Elizabeth, so good to see you again! You must come over and see us while you’re here, and tell us how Doug and Margaret are doing.”
    “They’re fine, Aunt Louisa. They would have come, only Dad had a sales convention—”
    “Yes, dear. We quite understand. Good night.”
    Elizabeth sighed. She supposed that she would have to go on explaining why her parents hadn’t come until the day she left, although no one seemed convinced by the explanation. There really was a sales convention, although its importance had been greatly exaggerated in the excuses to the Chandlers. The fact was that neither of her parents cared to spend any length of time in Chandler Grove. Margaret Chandler MacPherson, the youngest of Captain Grandfather’s three daughters, was not very much like her sisters. She had passed up her debutante season to marry Douglas MacPherson, and had been content in a suburban existence that didnot include the country club or the Junior League. Most of her spare time was taken up with courses at the community college, where she had learned calligraphy, macramé, and conversational Spanish. Because of her parents’ lack of interest in social matters, Elizabeth had had no chance of becoming a debutante, and even though she was sure she would have hated it, she wished she had been given the option anyway. Part of the reason Elizabeth had agreed to come to the wedding was because she felt a flicker of gratitude that Eileen had chosen not to be a debutante by marrying Michael Satisky instead.
    Charles, Geoffrey and Alban were crowded around the television set, fiddling with the dials. Listening to Geoffrey’s sardonic commentary on the program might have been fun, but she decided that she was too tired to stay up. If nobody was going to talk to her, she might as well go to bed.
    “Well, I’m going upstairs!” she said loudly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
    The only response was an absent wave from Geoffrey.
    She went upstairs, thinking what a perfect house this was for a wedding. The red-carpeted stairway was a proper setting for the wedding pictures: Eileen on the landing with her train draped in a circular pattern beside her, with the other members of the wedding party on descending stairsteps.
    I’m getting as bad as Aunt Amanda! she thought wryly.
    She made a face at the yellow bridesmaid dress hanging in the closet. How corny can you get—yellow chiffon! She would want a winter wedding, and maybe—yes, maybe the bridesmaids could all wear black velvet bodices and long skirts of the MacPherson clan tartan! Now that would be stylish!
    She caught herself in this daydream and laughed. It’s the house. I may have to be deprogrammed when I leave here.
    The elegance of the Chandler house had impressed her more than she cared to admit. At times it was aconscious effort to keep from showing it (Geoffrey would have a good laugh over that one). Apparently it was bad form to be impressed by anything, even if you did live in a brick ranch house with a carport, and were visiting people who