“Okay,” she said. “Now open.”

Shirley had lighted three kerosene lamps. The room was large, high-ceilinged, almost barren; but with these soft lights flickering through their glass chimneys, the place was far from dreary; and it was clean, well cared for. Between the front windows was a bed, with an ornamental iron headboard. At the foot of the bed was a wardrobe trunk, covered with a piece of faded purple chenille. One of the lamps had been placed on it and there were ash trays and glasses as well. Completing an intimate circle around this trunk-table were two old straw armchairs, their cushions covered with the same faded chenille.

Shirley searched Clinton’s face for a favorable reaction to her home. She was not disappointed, for he said, sincerely, “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been in.”

A soft breeze stirred the muslin curtains, and the lamp flames danced gently. There was in the air the good fragrance of a woman, her softness, her lilac and spice; and in the room itself, a cool and easy sense of freedom. It was the sort of a place in which, Clinton felt, a person might do as he pleased.

“Ize told once that lavender was my most becomin’ color,” Shirley said, “so I spent an entire Sunday dyein’ just about ever’thing I own, even my undies and m’panda,” She kicked off her slippers and opened a bureau drawer. “He sleeps in here.” She held up the panda: “See? Name is Herskelwitz, you want to hold him? I have to take a bath ‘fore I do another thing, so you just get comfy.”

“Is it okay if I lie down?” Clinton said. “I won’t go to sleep or anything.”

“You don’t have to ast me!”

“Well, it’s just, if I’m lyin’ down, I can think a whole lot better.”

Shirley took him by the hand and led him to the bed. They sat on the edge of it, his hand still in hers. “You know what?” she said. “I don’t think you ought to think about all the things you got to think about. Nobody should.”

“Maybe so, only I’ve got to.”

The girl looked at him for a moment, penetratingly, and then her gaze became diffused, passed through him and beyond him, as she said, “Would it make you feel funny if Ize to call you Willy?”

“Why do you want to call me Willy?”

“You just look like—like you should’ve been named Willy. I believe it suits you better’n that other name.”

“You think so?”

She nodded.

“Okay. Call me Willy.”

She started into the bathroom. “Listen, if you’re scared to be alone, I can leave the door open.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Well, um, wouldn’t it make you feel better to know I’m right there where you can holler?”

“I don’t care,” Clinton said.

“Don’t you get scared, alone?”

Clinton saw anxiety in her face.

“Sometimes,” he said.

“You do!” she said happily. “Well, I believe that’s perfectly normal, so I’ll leave the door open enough to hear you. In case you holler.”