in through the front with its extra
winter doorway. There was the big square sapphire-blue carpet with the
worn spot at the foot of the stairs. There was the antique cherry card
table which, to his definite knowledge, should be standing in the front
hall of his own house in Scarborough, more than two hundred miles and
twenty years away.

His mother appeared in the door of the library, edged with light from
the cannel-coal fire in the grate behind her. She said, "Oh, there you
are, Banny. I'm glad you're back in time for ... Heaven's sake, Banny!
What's all this for?"

Coulter felt himself grow hot with embarrassment. He and his mother had
never been much given to outward show of affection. Yet, knowing she
would be dead within the year, he had been unable to resist the urge to
embrace her. He was going to have to watch his step. He said, fumbling a
little, "I don't know, mother. I guess I just felt like it, that's all."

"Well--all right." She was mollified, patted the blue-white hair above
delicately handsome features to make certain no strand had been
disarranged. Then, "Did you remember to stop at MacAuliffe's and pick up
my lighter?"

Feeling lost, Coulter felt in the pockets of his polo coat. To his
relief he found a small package in one of them, pulled it out. It was
wrapped with the city jeweler's tartan paper and he handed it to his
mother. She said, "Thanks--I've missed it this last week."

He had forgotten his mother was a smoker. Coulter took off his coat and
hat and hung them up, trying to remember details of a life he had long
since allowed to blur into soft focus. She had taken up the habit about
a year after his father died of a ruptured appendix while on a hunting
trip down in the Maine woods.

He noticed the skis and ski-boots and ski-poles standing at attention in
the back of the closet, wondered if he could still execute a decent
Christie. Then, emerging, he said, "Just us for dinner tonight, mother?"

"Just us," she said, regarding him with a faint frown from over a
fresh-lit cigarette.

"Good!" he said. "How about a drink?"

"Banny," said his mother with patient sternness, "you know as well as I
that you're the family liquor-provider since your father died. I'm not
going to deal with bootleggers. And there's nothing but a little
vermouth in the pantry."

"Snooping again," he said, carefully unsmiling. Good God, it was still
Prohibition! Memory stabbed at him, bringing what had so recentl