The party continues

The party did't wind down for hours. People drank champagne from tables covered in white lace. They ate potatoes au gratin, blackberries, and bits of toast from silver dishes. And they talked of the weather as people have talked of the weather since the dawn of time. Someone would assert that the winter had been cold, unusually cold, and someone else would say that they'd been through one a decade or two before that had been colder. The older women who were bores would talk of when they were young.  The younger ones, who were still bores, but at least less so, would ask the young people about their lives, who were often no more interested in sharing them than a bird is in giving up its eggs. But one must pass the time.

He talked to Mrs. Winslow for fifteen minutes about the state of her garden. She was hoping that the new flowers would draw hummingbirds and butterflies. He was hopeful on her behalf that the birds of paradise and hyacinths would draw hummingbirds and butterflies. He knew very little about plants and a great deal about old women. They liked being listened to. Mrs. Winslow had a very large upper lip that protruded far over her thin bottom lip, giving her the appearance of a bird with a very large beak. She had silver hair, which was tied back rather severely. He'd learned to garden from her husband when he was a boy of five or so. He'd dug up carrots, picked blueberries and helped to plant cucumbers and squash. He'd learned that the key to gardening was in loving them, or so the old husband had told him. He was thinking of this while talking to Mrs. Winslow, remembering her husband, dead at least ten years now. He was thinking that he'd liked Mr. Winslow's hands immensely, the rough hair on his knuckles, the short stubby fingers, his finger nails covered in dirt. He could not remember anything else about him, except perhaps that he wore a hat, though that could be someone else. What would anyone remember of him when he died? he thought, rather abstractedly. He was talking about butterflies.

For a good portion of the evening he watched Jane from across the room. She spent time speaking with the wives and mothers of the neighborhood. She laughed readily, throwing her head back and revealing her pale and long neck. After a time she crossed the room to talk with Mr. Denby and his daughter, who put down her copy of Montaigne to speak with her. The two of them seemed to be talking and laughing in a way that he'd been unable to manage with her. It was one of Jane's many pleasant characteristics, she could bring out the best in anyone.