The family was gathered in the informal drawing room to prepare for Victor and Lucille’s return from Venice. Mrs. van Kirk sat on the edge of a chair with her legs crossed, a look of concentration on her face. Mr. van Kirk and I sat on the settee—him half listening to her suggestions and me thumbing through a poetry book.
When Mr. van Kirk first sat down, he suggested that his account of the world was far more poetic. I replied that I sincerely hoped he was right, and he said perhaps he’d show me his travel diaries, particularly the one from India, one day. The mention of them sparked my interest, but Mrs. van Kirk, completely unaware of the contents of our conversation, impatiently interrupted us.
“I think it best if we have a dinner,” she said. “I want every course to be absolutely stu
