It wasn’t until early afternoon that the invitations could go out. That was just as well, reflected Mrs. Selwick. There remained a seemingly insurmountable amount of work to be done before the party had any hopes of being a success at all. In truth, however, Mrs. Selwick could not help but think – and think and think again – on the rifling gossip that was sure to follow a party prepared posthaste.

Her daughter, it seemed, lacked the fiber so becoming women of her stature. True, age had made her desperate, though how anyone could ever become so desperate was entirely beyond Mrs. Selwick. Annette, her daughter, had found a man at last. That was cause for celebration. But it was too sudden, too rash, too unadvised, and therefore Mrs. Selwick worried that her daughter hurried toward an end like Shakespeare’s ill-fated lovers.

Her lover hardly had the dispassionate life Mr. Selwick had for so long lived with inspirational consistency. Mrs. Selwick felt her daughter would have done better to find a man like him.