They had begun to yawn, although it was early. The day had been a warm one, but Lovey pulled the curtains nearly to, for it was October, and she had observed signs all day that told her the night might turn cold for the time of year. A sweetness that was almost sickliness hung in the air. The last of the sugar cane had been ground that day and boiled into syrup, the scent of which lingered and reached everywhere.

It was then, as their minds drifted toward sleep, that they heard the galloping of a horse on the drive, followed by knocking on the front door downstairs. Lovey froze as she considered the possibilities; then shook her head and went out, not bothering to close the door after her. Pauline went to the door and pushed it not quite to, so that she could listen. When Lovey opened the door downstairs and the sound of the caller’s voice came up, Selma closed the window quietly and stood with her back to it, watching Pauline.

Lovey knew from Bonard’s eyes when she let him in that he had been drinking. His quick breathing might have come from excitement and hard riding, but the shining eyes were from liquor and a conviction that he had been done ill.

“Mister Bonard, nobody home; they all gone to Savannah,” Lovey said. When he tried to walk by her, her hands met his chest and pressed lightly. “Everybody in Savannah—”

He pushed her aside. “I know who’s not!” he said and ran down the hall into the stairwell room. “Selma!” he yelled. “Selma! I come to claim you! You got to come with me now, you hear? Home to Oaks! Your clothes are there waiting—come and wear them like you ought!”

Pauline closed the door upstairs and bolted it. Lovey was beside Bonard downstairs, waiting to see what he would do next.

“You hear me, Selma?” Clutching the banisters with both hands gave him strength of body and purpose, and he took a breath and plunged up them. After him went Lovey. Seeing that Selma’s door was closed, she made no move to interfere. Bonard had often in the old days been on this floor visiting Leon in his room, so he knew which was Selma’s and went to it directly to knock on the door, then to try the knob, and when he found it ungiving, to pound hard on the door with open palms.

“Mister Bonard—go home!” Lovey pleaded.

“You in there, Selma?” He paused. There was no word or movement behind the door. “Selma!” He shook the knob and kicked the wall. Then making himself quiet, he spoke through the closed door as if he knew she was just on the other side of it, an inch away. “Don’t you love me one bit?”

Lovey grasped his arm. “Go home, Mister Bonard. Best to, like I say.”