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illegitimacy, about which Austen seems quite liberal.”
    She was by no means finished, but Allegra interrupted. “She says it’s a stain if unbleached by nobility or wealth.” We had just begun to suspect that Allegra might not like Austen as much as the rest of us. So far it was only a suspicion; nothing she’d said had been unfair. We were keeping watch, but honi soit qui mal y pense.
    â€œI think Jane is being ironic there,” Prudie suggested. She was next to a heater. Her pale, polished cheeks were delicately flushed. “She has an ironic wit, I think some readers miss that. I’m often ironic myself, especially in e-mail. Sometimes my friends ask, Was that a joke?”
    â€œWas that a joke?” Allegra asked.
    Bernadette went steadily on. “Then there’s the case of Robert Martin. Surely we’re intended to take Mr. Knightley’s side on thequestion of Robert Martin. Only a farmer, but at the end Emma says it will be a great pleasure to get to know him.”
    â€œWe all have a sense of level,” said Jocelyn. “It may not be based on class exactly anymore, but we still have a sense of what we’re entitled to. People pick partners who are nearly their equal in looks. The pretty marry the pretty, the ugly the ugly.” She paused. “To the detriment of the breed.”
    â€œWas that a joke?” Prudie asked.
    Sylvia had spoken very little all night and Jocelyn was worried about it. “What should we read next?” Jocelyn asked her. “You pick.”
    â€œI’m in the mood for Sense and Sensibility. ”
    â€œI love that one,” Bernadette said. “It’s maybe my favorite, except for Pride and Prejudice. Though I love Emma. I always forget how much until I reread it. My very favorite bit is about the strawberries. Mrs. Elton in her hat, with her basket.” She thumbed through the pages. The relevant corner had been folded back, but so had several other corners; it was little help. “Here we have it,” she said. “ ‘Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was very ready. . . . Strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or spoken of . . . “delicious fruit—only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to cherries . . . ” ’ ”
    Bernadette read us the whole thing. It was a wonderful passage, though quite long when done aloud.
    J ocelyn’s relationship with Tony lasted into their senior year, and its end was unfortunately timed so as to make her miss the Winter Ball. She’d already bought a dress, a tiered, lacy, off-the-shoulder silver thing that she loved so much she would have made things go another couple of weeks if she’d been able. Butby then every word he said was an irritation to her, and he did insist on continuing to talk.
    Three years later Sylvia and Daniel married, and it was a formal affair, not quite their style. Jocelyn always suspected it had been planned that way so she would finally have a place to wear her dress. She brought a date, one in a series of boyfriends and lasting no longer than the others, but immortalized in the wedding pictures—raising his glass, standing with his arm around Jocelyn, seated at a table with Jocelyn’s mother, the two of them deep in serious conversation.
    Sylvia and Jocelyn were in college now, and they joined a consciousness-raising group that met on campus, second floor of the International House. At their third meeting, Jocelyn spoke about the summer of Mike and Steven. She hadn’t meant to take a great deal of time with it, but she’d never told anyone, not even Sylvia, much about the night of the dance. She found herself crying all through the telling. She’d forgotten, until she was in the midst of it, how Bryan had looked at her to be sure she was watching, and then stuck his finger into his mouth and pulled it