But beneath an atmosphere of resignation, of quiet acceptance, was the nervous energy of departure. Outside, intermittent rain washed away the graying snow, leaving dirty peaks along the sides of forgotten pathways. Inside, Christmas was abandoned as trunks were brought down from the attics. Mabel began a new list, titled “Packing”; she pulled out sun-bleached florals and faded stripes and held them up to herself in front of her dressing mirror. She rummaged in old hatboxes, trying on straw hats, fiddling with bent brims and ribbons and silk flowers. She had not been overseas since her honeymoon, when she and Howard had spent a few days in Paris followed by a week on the French Riviera, where—Mabel was quite certain—Iris had been conceived. And as Mabel packed bags—not to take away with her, but for jumble sales, she decided—Daisy dismantled her room; Ben Gifford returned to London with Lily and Miles; and Dosia left for West Sussex, where she was to spend the New Year with friends.
