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take a nip, then gargle with cologne. She called your place the Sahara. Here we are crossing the Sahara. Not that we didn’t get enough lemonade and iced tea to float a battleship. Float four battleships, eh?”
    Perhaps she had seen something when I opened the door—some surprise, or failure of welcome. Perhaps she was daunted, though at the same time immensely pleased by the house and the furnishings, which were elegant and dull and not all chosen by Richard, either. Whatever the reason, her tone when she spoke of Dalgleish and my parents was condescending. I don’t think she wanted to remind me of home, and put me in my place; I think she wanted to establish herself, to let me know that she belonged here, more than there.
    â€œOh, this is a treat, sitting here and looking at your gorgeous view! Is that Vancouver Island?”
    â€œPoint Grey,” said Richard unencouragingly.
    â€œOh, I should have known. We went out there on the bus yesterday. We saw the University. I’m with a tour, dear, did I tell you? Nine old maids and seven widows and three widowers. Not one married couple. But as I say, you never know, the trip’s not over yet.”
    I smiled, and Richard said he had to move the sprinkler.
    â€œWe go to Vancouver Island tomorrow, then we’re taking the boat to Alaska. Everybody said to me back home, what do you want to go to Alaska for, and I said, because I’ve never been there, isn’t that a good enough reason? No bachelors on the tour, and do you know why? They don’t live to be this old! That’s a medical fact. You tell your hubby. Tell him he did the right thing. But I’m not going to talk shop. Every time I go on a trip they find out I’m a nurse and they show metheir spines and their tonsils and their whatnots. They want me to poke their livers. Free diagnosis. I say enough of that. I’m retired now and I mean to enjoy life. This beats the iced tea a mile, doesn’t it? But she used to go to such a lot of trouble. The poor thing. She used to frost the glasses with egg white, remember?”
    I tried to get her to talk about my mother’s illness, new treatments, her hospital experiences, not only because that was interesting to me, but because I thought it might calm her down and make her sound more intelligent. I knew Richard hadn’t gone out at all but was lurking in the kitchen.
    But she said, no shop.
    â€œBeaten egg white, then sugar. Oh, dear. You had to drink through straws. But the fun we had there. The john in the basement and all. We did have fun.”
    Iris’s lipstick, her bright teased hair, her iridescent dress and oversized brooch, her voice and conversation, were all part of a policy which was not a bad one: she was in favor of movement, noise, change, flashiness, hilarity, and courage. Fun. She thought other people should be in favor of these things too, and told about her efforts on the tour.
    â€œI’m the person to get the ball rolling. Some people get down-hearted on a trip. They get indigestion. They talk about their constipation. I always get their minds off it. You can always joke. You can start a singsong. Every morning I can practically hear them thinking, what crazy thing is that Chaddeley going to come up with today?”
    Nothing fazed her, she said. She told about other trips. Ireland. The other women had been afraid to get down and kiss the Blarney Stone, but she said, “I’ve come this far and I’m going to kiss the damn thing!” and did so, while a blasphemous Irishman hung on to her ankles.
    We drank; we ate; the children came in and were praised. Richard came and went. Nothing fazed her; she was right. Nothing deflected her from her stories of herself; the amount of time she could spend not talking was limited. She told about the carpetbag and the millionaire’s widow all over again. She told about the dissolute actor. How many conversations she must have ridden