Down at the Dinghy

           Itwasalittleafterfouro’clockonanIndianSummerafternoon.Somefifteenortwentytimessincenoon,Sandra,themaid,hadcomeawayfromthelake-frontwindowinthekitchenwithhermouthsettight.Thistimeasshecameaway,sheabsentlyuntiedandre-tiedherapronstrings,takingupwhatlittleslackherenormouswaistlineallowed.ThenshewentbacktotheenameltableandloweredherfreshlyuniformedbodyintotheseatoppositeMrs.Snell.Mrs.Snellhavingfinishedthecleaningandironingwashavinghercustomarycupofteabeforewalkingdowntheroadtothebusstop.Mrs.Snellhadherhaton.Itwasthesameinteresting,blackfeltheadpieceshehadworn,notjustallsummer,butforthepastthreesummers-throughrecordheatwaves,throughchangeoflife,overscoresofironingboards,overthehelmsofdozensofvacuumcleaners.TheHattieCarnegielabelwasstillinsideit,fadedbut(itmightbesaid)unbowed.

           "I’mnotgonnaworryaboutit,"Sandraannounced,forthefifthorsixthtime,addressingherselfasmuchasMrs.Snell."ImadeupmymindI’mnotgonnaworryaboutit.Whatfor?"

           "That’sright,"saidMrs.Snell."Iwouldn’t.Ireallywouldn’t.Reachmemybag,dear."

           Aleatherhandbag,extremelyworn,butwithalabelinsideitasimpressiveastheoneinsideMrs.Snell’shat,layonthepantry.Sandrawasabletoreachitwithoutstandingup.ShehandeditacrossthetabletoMrs.Snell,whoopeneditandtookoutapackofmentholatedcigarettesandafolderofStorkClubmatches.