Lovey stood to one side scowling. She maintained authority over the preparation scene by being the only one who sipped coffee, setting the cup back into the ridged circle of the saucer with a clank that made Buttercup and Posie start, although Bianca appeared not to notice her at all.

Selma stared into the looking glass over the dresser and saw her hair being tortured into the general lineaments of her Aunt Nell’s on other formal occasions.

After the hair was curled and arranged, the petticoat and the wedding dress were put on the girl as tenderly as a cook will mold whipped egg white. The dress, which had been made in Savannah, was simple but fine: white satin with an outer covering of lace, the neckline dipping to the top of Selma’s bosom, the waist gathered in to further emphasize the rounding of the bosom. The lace and satin skirt billowed generously and fell to the top of Selma’s white satin slippers. There was no train and no veil, but when the time approached for the actual wedding, Lovey would set on the crown of Selma’s hair a tiara-shaped three-quarter circle of lace fern and the small white flowers they called snowdrops.

As Posie knelt to guide Selma’s feet into the satin shoes, Nell knocked at the door and came in without having been acknowledged. Behind her came Myrtis carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and glasses, a task she was now too important to perform except on such a special occasion. She had wanted to see the young mistress close up in her wedding clothes so as to go back to those in the kitchen with a fresh sensation. Even as Myrtis stared at the nearly bridle, Nell went to Selma and put a prayer book into her hands.

“Something borrowed, old, and blue,” she said. “Carry it and think of me.” She kissed Selma’s cheek and fled the room as if pursued by satyrs.

As she left, those attending Selma heard the noise from downstairs. The guests having assembled now moved closer as the important hour approached.

Lovey poured a glass of lemonade and sipped from it as a royal taster might have before handing it to Selma. “Sour,” Lovey pronounced it.

“Pauline knows,” Selma answered automatically.

The shoes on, Posie rose from the floor with an important groan, Buttercup helping her both to rise and to groan. Those two then blotted with thin soft cloths Selma’s exposed face and neck and bosom and arms and hands and applied to them a mixture of cornstarch and scented powder with cotton puffs.

After them Bianca came with a small chamois cloth she had dipped in oil and now applied to Selma’s lips; then quickly wiped each of her fingernails so that they shone pinkly. Selma stared curiously at her image in the looking glass.