The Rose Garden. Maeve Brennan

houses have been very ingenious in devising ways to trap and hold their own particular glimpse of the water. Some have centipede-like porches creeping sideways from their houses to the nearest break in the wall of trees and buildings that cuts them off from the river, so that the vantage point gained, while not exactly natural to the house, is still part of the establishment. It is of no advantage to repair to a neighbor’s house in order to see the water and show it off to visitors; each householder feels he must have a view of his own to offer. Several tree houses have been built. One man went so far as to erect a slender round tower of brick in his garden. Only one person can squeeze up the steep spiral staircase of the tower, and only one can stand in the tiny room that tops it, but sooner or later each guest, glass in hand, makes the solitary, claustrophobic ascent and returns to report on the merits of the view from the tower, and to compare it favorably with all other points of survey around.

      All the people who live at Herbert’s Retreat own their own houses. Newcomers can seldom get a foot in, except in the summertime, when a few residents let their places for two or three months. The tone and welfare of the community are guarded by a board of trustees. There are almost no restrictions on the behavior of children and animals belonging to the community, but there are iron restrictions against strange children and strange animals. The general atmosphere of the place is one of benevolent freedom. The life there is casual and informal, but gracious. A good deal of quiet entertaining is done. All the residents know each other very well or fairly well. There are no strangers. Living there is rather like living in a club.

      Late one November afternoon, a splendid dinner for three was in the first stages of preparation in the kitchen of one of the houses at the Retreat. This house was long, low, and white. It was not large, but it was charming. It was the property of Mrs. George Harkey, who was generally said to be a very romantic-looking young woman, although her face was not pretty. In her kitchen, Bridie and Agnes, the maids, were taking their time about getting the dinner. They knew that the guest of the evening had only just arrived, that drinks had only started, and that they had plenty of time before they need bother with the dining room, where the table was already set with silver and glass and linen, and with candles ready for lighting.

      Bridie belonged to the house. She lived in. Agnes worked and lived at the Gieglers’, up the road, and had come to help out for the evening. Bridie, who liked heat, had planted her broad self on a chair beside the stove. Agnes, hovering inquisitively around the strange kitchen, was at a double disadvantage. Not only was she relegated, for the time being, to the position of helper but she was new to the community, having come out from New York City only the week before. She longed to stand at the kitchen window, to watch the antics of Mr. and Mrs. Harkey and their guest, whose voices she could hear outside, but the balance of amiability was still uncertain between her and Bridie, and she feared to put herself in a position that might prove embarrassing if Bridie chose to make it so. However, Bridie’s unwavering, ironic stare finally drove her to drift with a show of unconcern to the window, where she saw enough to give her courage to make a remark.

      “They’re at the statue!” she cried.

      Bridie rose from the chair as though it had burnt her, and made for the window.

      “Don’t let them see you looking,” she said, and the two of them crowded together at the side of the window, behind the curtain, and stared out.

      They could see the river, separated from them by a long, descending sweep of lawn as wide as the house and guarded on either side by a dense barricade of trees and hedges. The grass on the lawn had only recently been planted. It was still thin and tender, but the earth had been rigorously plowed, raked, dug, and rolled to receive it, and there was no doubt that eventually it would present a carpet of emerald-green velvet leading precisely to the edge of the river. A naked woman in white marble, her limbs modestly disposed, stood to the right of the lawn, not far from the house. Farther from the house, and on the left, a gray stone clown, dwarf-sized, bowed his head dejectedly. The clown wore baggy pants, a flowing tie, and a jacket too small for him. His gray stone wig hung dead from one of his hands, and his face, with its despairing grin, had just been freshly powdered, and painted with purple lipstick. It was the guest of the evening, Mr. Charles Runyon, who had decorated the clown, using tools from the handbag of his hostess, Leona Harkey. Now Charles stood with his arm around Leona, and they laughed together at his handiwork. A little apart from them, George Harkey stood alone, joining uncertainly in their amusement, which was exaggerated and intimate and hard to live up to. It was evident he could think of nothing to say. At the start of the jest, Charles had handed him the handbag, asking him to hold it open for him. The handbag still dangled from his hand, and he glanced awkwardly down at it from time to time, and sipped uneasily from the glass he had carried out with him.

      “That’s the new husband?” Agnes whispered.

      “That’s him, all right,” said Bridie. “Mr. Harkey. George, his name is.”

      “He’s not bad-looking.”

      “Oh, he looks all right. How old would you say he was?”

      “About thirty, I’d say, looking at him from here.”

      “That’s what I thought. The same age as herself, then.”

      “The other fellow is older. Mr. Runyon.”

      “Mr. God Runyon,” said Bridie emphatically. “Yes, he’s a good bit older. He must be past fifty, that fellow.”

      “Why do you call him Mr. God?”

      “Ah, the airs he puts on him, lording it around. And the way she kowtows to him. She’ll make the new husband kowtow to him, too.”

      “How long are they married?”

      “A month, it is.”

      “And how long was she a widow?”

      “Four months,” said Bridie, smiling grimly at Agnes’s astonished face. “Finch, her name used to be.”

      “And he was killed in a car?”

      “He was dead drunk and ran himself into a young tree. Destroyed the tree and killed himself. She had to get a new car. He was all over the windshield when they found him, and the front seat, and bits of him on the hood—blood, hair, everything. Ugh. I often wonder did they get both his eyes to bury him. His face was just pulp, that’s all—all mashed. The police were mystified, that he could do himself so much damage against such a small tree. He must have been going awful fast. She never turned a hair. I was here when she got the call. Not a feather out of her.”

      “She’s hard.”

      “That rip hasn’t got a nerve in her body. And there she is now, laughing away the same as ever with Mr. God, and Mr. Harkey standing there in place of Mr. Finch. You’d hardly know the difference, except that Mr. Finch was fair-headed and this fellow is black.”

      “Where does Mr. God come in?”

      “He’s her admirer. He admires her, and she admires him. They admire each other. Oh, they talk a lot about their admiring, but you should have seen the way he hotfooted it out of the picture when Mr. Finch was killed. She was all up and ready to marry him, of course. She thought sure she was going to be Mrs. God. But Mr. God was a match for her. All of a sudden didn’t he discover there were people all over the country he had to visit, Arizona and everywhere, and he ended up going to Italy. This is his first night back. This is the first time she’s seen him since the summer. That’s what all the fuss is about, getting you in to help with the dinner, and all. This is the first Mr. Harkey has seen of him, either. You can imagine what’s going on in his mind. He never laid eyes on him before tonight.”

      “He has a great look of a greyhound. Mr. God, I mean.”

      “Oh, he’s a very elegant gentleman. Did you notice the pointy shoes he’s wearing. And the waistcoat with the little buttons on it. And the way he shapes around, imagining everybody is looking at him. He’d make you sick.”

      “They’re coming in now. They’ll be looking for more drinks, I suppose?”

      “That