“That was before I found someone to talk to, of course.”

“Me, too,” she said again. Janet assured herself that this wasn’t flirtation or anything like the sort of conversational foreplay going on everywhere else: it was simply nice-relaxing like she had already decided-just to talk and come back to some sort of social normalcy she had for so long denied herself.

With noise battling noise all around there was a moment of silence between them. He said: “So as we’re talking I could stay.”

“I don’t want to keep you,” she said, immediately retreating into the pit where she felt at home.

“OK,” he said at once, going backwards himself.

“I’ll probably leave as well,” she said.

“Why don’t we leave together?” He shrugged a no-big-deal shrug.

“Why not?” she said, answering the shrug as well as the question.

“My name’s John,” he said. “John Sheridan.”

“Janet,” she responded. “Janet Stone.”

2

Dumbarton was jammed, as it nearly always was, cars tight against each other: some were even pulled in off the road, between the trees and parked halfway into driveways, completely blocking the pavement. The thunderclaps of party noise came out above them through the open balcony windows.

Sheridan said: “Being a neighbor of Harriet Andrew could seriously damage your peace of mind.”

“She’s a very good person,” said Janet, defensively.

“I’m sure,” he said. “You friends from England?”

“You’re very observant.”

“The accent is pretty obvious,” said Sheridan.

“Yes,” said Janet, answering the question. “We read at Oxford together.” She hesitated, feeling as uncomfortable as she had back at the house. “I came by cab: there’s a rank on Wisconsin.”