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attention was focused. He decided that his original surmise had been correct: she was plain. Her hair was thin and straight, and she had an overbite which in combination with a long, thin nose gave her a sad look. But her skin was white and clear and free of blemish. She reminded him of Sister Bertha, his sixth-grade teacher, whom he used to dream of.
    â€œHave you had lunch?” asked Agnes anxiously, and appeared relieved when he assured her that he had. He’d had a sandwich and a cup of coffee at the railroad station while waiting for his train.
    â€œWell, that’s fine,” said Cyrus, rubbing his hands. “Now, I said I’d show you the town, but I’m going to be tied up for a while. If you don’t mind waiting …”
    â€œOh, sure,” said Joyce.
    â€œOr tell you what. Peg could take you around. That be all right? Do you mind, Peg?”
    â€œOh sure. I’ll just get my scarf. I won’t be a minute.”
    It was a warm April day, and they rode in her roadster with the top down. Behind the wheel, with her head raised against the breeze coming over the windshield, he thought she looked quite attractive. She drove out to the lighthouse and they got out and stared down at the harbor with its hundreds of small sailboats. Then they got back in the car, and she offered commentary as they drove along. “That’s the Carlson Yacht Club. They don’t have Catholics or Jews.” A little farther on, “That’s the North Shore Yacht Club. They have Catholics, but no Jews. And just beyond, that brown house, is the Barnard’s Crossing Club. They allow anyone to join.” She showed him the Catholic church and told him that the pastor, Father Joseph Tierney, was an old curmudgeon and that his curate was Father Bill. She thought perhaps Father Joseph didn’t care too much for his curate. “We make a point of going to Father Joseph’s Mass because my aunt and uncle think Father Bill is too modern.”
    They drove down to the center of town and parked once again, so they could walk along the narrow streets where many of the houses had little mounted tablets giving their date of construction and who had built them originally. Most of these houses had been built in the eighteenth century, but some as early as the seventeenth.
    â€œNone of the houses are particularly attractive,” she pointed out, “but the net effect is quaint. Which is why the town has begun to attract a lot of artists. Uncle Cyrus doesn’t approve of them and won’t rent to them. But he’ll sell them. He says if they’ve got enough money to buy a house, they’re probably pretty stable, but if they only want to rent, you can’t trust them not to have wild parties and do damage.”
    As it began to grow dark, he suggested dropping in at one of the numerous cafés for coffee, but she explained, “We have supper promptly at seven. Mrs. Marston—she’s the cook and the housekeeper—kind of expects us to eat then. She’s apt to get annoyed if we’re late.”
    â€œWhat does she do? Break dishes?”
    â€œNo, but she somehow manages to show it.”
    â€œWell, how about a movie afterward?”
    â€œI’d like that,” she said. “There’s a good movie at the Criterion. I’ve wanted to see it, but neither Uncle Cyrus nor Aunt Agnes cared to go, and I don’t like to go alone.”
    Supper was served by Mrs. Marston in the large paneled dining room. Conversation was concentrated on their afternoon excursion. “Did you see …” “Did you show him …” “Why didn’t you take him to …” And he was called upon to give his impressions, of course approving of what he had seen.
    When they finished the meal, Margaret announced, “Victor is taking me to the Criterion.”
    â€œI hear it’s a good picture,” said Agnes.
    â€œDon’t bring her