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Mama.”
    â€œThis is indeed a surprise, my dear,” Claire said. She patted the seat of the small chair next to her, and her son obediently sat down. “Are you on your way out, or will you be having dinner with us?”
    â€œI’m tired. I have no plans for going anywhere. I thought I might speak with you for a few moments. . . .”
    Lily, blushing, stood up, but Claude said: “Don’t go away, my dear. I didn’t mean to interrupt your tête-â-tête with Mama.”
    Lily sat down again, disquieted. He wanted something. She waited, her breath a little short. Did Mama know him as well as she did? She was never outwardly revolted by his ways. She’d say, smiling: “I am his mother, just as I am yours.” Without comment or criticism. The wisdom of Solomon.
    Claire was looking now at her son. “We rarely see you. I rarely have the pleasure of your company. I sometimes wonder what shall be my fate, when Lily marries.”
    Lily heard this with some shock. Her mother was lonely. She felt an impulse to say, But of course you will live with me! and then remembered that her mother, though so often alone, was a married woman. She said nothing.
    â€œI worry about all these things,” Claude said. “You, me, Lily. Lily doesn’t go out enough, but she doesn’t appreciate her evenings with me. Perhaps a woman today prefers not to go out escorted by her brother. There are so many more interesting escorts to have!”
    â€œIt’s all very sudden for her, that’s all,” Claire replied quietly. “She’s shy—and she hasn’t been out in society for many years.”
    â€œStill, she’s not a nun. She must find a way to swallow her shyness, to blend in.”
    In the few moments of silence that ensued, Lily squirmed on her seat. She wondered how her relatives could speak this way about her, as if she were a small animal or an inanimate object whose character and predilections could inoffensively be discussed in front of her.
    Then Claude said: “Mama, I wonder if I might beg a favor of you. Papa and I have entered into limited partnership on a project of great importance, with a distinguished and powerful man. I’d like you to invite him to the house, for a special dinner.”
    â€œSo soon in the relationship?” Claire inquired.
    â€œIt’s most important. He needs to meet you, to see what a lovely table you set—to understand that we aren’t just nouveau riche upstarts from nowhere.”
    Lily thought: Mama isn’t. And again she wondered why her parents, such different people, had ever come together. Claire asked: “And who is this most distinguished personage? A deputy?”
    â€œPrince Mikhail Brasilov.”
    Lily blinked. Claude wasn’t looking at her, but at their mother. She could feel her anger mounting, and her disgust. Claire said: “But—I’m not sure. It might be quite wrong.”
    â€œWhy wrong? To invite someone to dinner?”
    â€œWrong,” she said, with emphasis “because of Lily.” And her large dark eyes didn’t leave his face. They spoke for her, and made him shift on the little chair.
    â€œBut Lily hardly knows him. They said hello, and that was that. For Papa and me, this would be important.”
    â€œBut for me, it would be wrong. And that, my dear boy, is that. ”
    â€œVery well,” Claude said tightly. He rose, but his lips were pinched. Perfunctorily he bent down to kiss his mother, and then he was gone. The two women remained alone, sewing, silent. But neither was concentrating on what she was doing.
    At the end of dinner, some hours later, Paul Bruisson raised his head from his pommes de terre a la Dauphinoise and said to his wife: “Next Thursday, we shall have Prince Brasilov to supper. Plan something really fine. These Russians are used to seven-course dinners in the privacy of their own homes—so do your