Chap­ter IV opens with Ethel reclin­ing in qui­et com­fort, the embers of the evening’s social event still glow­ing in her mind. Sit­ting with her Aunt Ruth, she begins to unrav­el her impres­sions of the guests, curi­ous about the night’s sub­tleties that often escaped plain obser­va­tion. Ruth’s respons­es are mea­sured and amused, reveal­ing how often the sur­face of civil­i­ty con­ceals under­cur­rents of ambi­tion, dis­ap­point­ment, or intrigue. Their con­ver­sa­tion nat­u­ral­ly shifts to Mr. Mar­riot, a new­com­er to their cir­cle, whose pol­ished exte­ri­or con­ceals a per­son­al­i­ty ground­ed almost entire­ly in finance. His pref­er­ence for gold over gen­uine warmth had left an impres­sion on both women, who viewed him more as a sym­bol of mod­ern society’s val­ues than as a man of mean­ing­ful depth. It wasn’t cru­el­ty that shaped their opin­ions, but a shared dis­ap­point­ment in how rarely such men offered emo­tion­al sub­stance along­side mate­r­i­al wealth.

Their mus­ings con­tin­ue with a dis­cus­sion about Jamie Say­er, an artist whose aspi­ra­tions were far greater than his actu­al skill. Ruth admits to feel­ing a strange mix­ture of sym­pa­thy and irri­ta­tion toward him—his lack of authen­tic­i­ty more grat­ing than his mediocre art­work. Ethel agrees, not­ing that while Say­er fan­cied him­self avant-garde, his over­done man­ner­isms betrayed a des­per­ate need for val­i­da­tion rather than any real artis­tic spir­it. Talk of Clau­dine Jef­frys fol­lows, whose ele­gant fig­ure and reserved charm had attract­ed sub­tle admi­ra­tion that evening. Yet beneath her poised demeanor, Ruth sens­es an inten­tion­al aloof­ness, as though Clau­dine had long mas­tered the art of appear­ing enig­mat­ic with­out offer­ing much of her­self. Mean­while, Miss Ull­man is described as the embod­i­ment of pow­er and real­i­ty, her sub­stan­tial wealth matched by a blunt­ness that made con­ver­sa­tion with her feel more like nego­ti­a­tion than social exchange. Each woman seemed to car­ry a role, and through these roles, the deep­er motives and vul­ner­a­bil­i­ties of the evening’s char­ac­ters slow­ly came into focus.

As Dora’s name enters the con­ver­sa­tion, a notice­able shift occurs. Ethel’s tone becomes con­tem­pla­tive, even slight­ly pro­tec­tive, as she recalls the effort­less way Dora cap­tured atten­tion through­out the evening. Her beau­ty seemed to arrest time itself, caus­ing Fred Mostyn, usu­al­ly so reserved, to exhib­it a star­tling loss of com­po­sure. Ruth, star­tled but intrigued, leans in, and the two begin to dis­sect Fred’s trans­for­ma­tion. It wasn’t just admi­ra­tion; it was an over­whelm­ing emo­tion­al surrender—something too swift to trust, too intense to ignore. Ethel, nev­er one to deny her instincts, speaks can­did­ly of her dis­ap­proval. She could not and would not be con­tent with the rem­nants of a man’s affec­tion, espe­cial­ly not one capa­ble of being so eas­i­ly swayed by another’s pres­ence.

The con­ver­sa­tion begins to ques­tion whether such spon­ta­neous emo­tions could ever yield real devo­tion or if they were des­tined to burn out just as quick­ly. Ruth offers a more for­giv­ing per­spec­tive, sug­gest­ing that even the most impul­sive pas­sions some­times lead to pro­found con­nec­tions. But Ethel, firm in her views, insists that last­ing affec­tion should emerge from char­ac­ter, not chem­istry alone. She recalls past obser­va­tions of Fred—his thought­ful let­ters, his steadiness—and now finds her­self won­der­ing if it was all mere­ly sur­face. Was he sin­cere, or had Dora mere­ly awak­ened some­thing in him he nev­er tru­ly under­stood? Ruth warns gen­tly that pas­sion alone doesn’t build a life; it may build a moment, but not a mar­riage. And Ethel, though stirred, does not flinch in her resolve. She wants some­thing deep­er, some­thing less prone to weath­er­ing under anoth­er woman’s gaze.

As their con­ver­sa­tion draws to a close, Ruth del­i­cate­ly touch­es upon the hopes oth­ers might have pinned to Ethel and Fred. It’s spo­ken not as pres­sure but as acknowledgment—that fam­i­ly dreams often whis­per loud­er than we expect. Ethel lis­tens, respect­ful yet unshak­en. If Fred Mostyn could be led so eas­i­ly from affec­tion to infat­u­a­tion, then per­haps he wasn’t meant to walk beside her at all. Her path, though shaped by the world around her, would not be dic­tat­ed by it. This clar­i­ty becomes the thread that holds her reflec­tions togeth­er, weav­ing a per­son­al con­vic­tion through the del­i­cate fab­ric of expec­ta­tion, admi­ra­tion, and soci­etal the­ater.

By the end of the evening, Ethel’s thoughts set­tle not on the opin­ions of oth­ers, but on the strength of know­ing her­self. Through laugh­ter, cri­tique, and mem­o­ry, the con­ver­sa­tion with Ruth becomes more than commentary—it becomes a reck­on­ing. And in that still­ness, Ethel dis­cov­ers that true val­ue lies not in how oth­ers see her, but in how she choos­es to see her­self.