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.