Marise was aware of all this, richly and happily aware of the complexities of an impression whose total seemed to her, for the moment, felicity itself.  It pleased her, all, every bit of it, pleased and amused her; the dear children, Paul worshiping at the shrine of Eugenia’s elegancies, Mark the absurd darling with that grotesque sword between his legs, Elly devouring her favorite sandwich with impassioned satisfaction and wondering about the Holy Ghost; Cousin Hetty, ageless, pungent, and savory as one of her herbs; Mr. Welles, the old tired darling come into his haven, loving Paul as he would his own grandson; Eugenia orchid-like against their apple-blossom rusticity; Marsh . . . how tremendously more simpatico he had seemed this afternoon than ever before, as though one might really like him, and not just find him exciting and interesting; Neale, dear Neale with his calm eyes into which it did everyone good to look.  All of them at ease, friendly, enjoying food, the visible world, and each other.  Where, after all, were those traditional, troubling, insoluble intricacies of human relationships which had been tormenting her and darkening her sky?  It was all so good and simple if one could only remain good and simple oneself.  There was no lightning to fear in that lucent sunset air.

* * * * *

Presently, as the talk turned on flowers and the dates of their blooming, Eugenia said to her casually, “Marisette, here we are the first of June and past, and the roses here are less advanced than they were at Tivoli the last of March.  Do you remember the day when a lot of us sat outdoors and ate a picnic dinner, just as we do now?  It was the day we climbed Monte Cavo.”

Marise explained, “Miss Mills is a friend who dates back even before my husband’s time, back to our student days in Rome.”  To Eugenia she said, “You’re giving us both away and showing how long ago it is, and how you’ve forgotten about details.  We never could have climbed up Monte Cavo, the day we went to Tivoli.  They don’t go on the same excursion, at all.”

“That’s true,” agreed Eugenia indifferently, “you’re right.  Monte Cavo goes with the Rocca di Papa expedition.”

Before she could imagine a possible reason, Marise felt her hands go cold and moist.  The sky seemed to darken and lower above her.  Eugenia went on, “And I never went to Rocca di Papa with you, at all, I’m sure of that.  That was a trip you took after you had dropped me for Neale.  In fact, it was on that very expedition that you got formally engaged, don’t you remember?  You and Neale walked over from Monte Cavo and only just caught the last car down.”

* * * * *

Ridiculous!  Preposterous!  Marise told herself that it was not possible that her hands were trembling so.  It was merely a physical reaction, such as one had when startled by some trivial sudden event.  But she couldn’t make them stop trembling.  She couldn’t make them stop.