“Oh, he's probably identified you as a terrorist who has come to kidnap him and hold him for an enormous ransom. He's been expecting it for years," Jane said. "Willard? Willard!”

The basement door squeaked open and a wet nose appeared, hesitated for a long, analytical sniff, and was followed slowly by the rest of the dog. He crept cautiously to Cecily, smelled her knees approvingly, and then lovingly leaned against her so hard, she nearly toppled over.

“Willard!" Jane exclaimed, shoving him away. "I'll take your things upstairs, Mom. Help yourself to some coffee if you want. It's decaf. You better start looking over the class work. The first meeting is tonight. This pile is yours," Jane said, patting the stack of manuscripts on the counter.

When Jane came back downstairs, her mother had poured them both coffee and was sitting at the kitchen table, examining the manuscripts. "I'm so glad you agreed to take this class with me. I see the awful Agnes Pryce is in the class."

“You know Mrs. Pryce?"

“I knew her once, to my sorrow. Portugal, I think. Her husband was involved with the embassy for a mercifully short time. They were both terrible people. Mean-spirited and very superior-acting, without any good reason. He was quite the old lech, as I recall."

“Portugal? Was I there?"

“No, it was a year or so after you got married. Your father and I hosted a party once that they came to. Some poor man spilled champagne on her, and you'd have thought it was the outbreak of world war. She chewed him to little shreds. Fortunately, he was an American or there would have been an international incident over it. I don't suppose she's mellowed?"

“Not that you can tell. She's on a perpetual campaign to have all children within a hundred-mile radius of Chicago confined to their homes until they're thirty. Something all the mothers are fighting.”