Bonard closed the door of his bedroom, shutting out the sounds of celebration that came from below stairs. He then pried off his shoes, using his own feet to serve each other, and ripped the cravat from his throat.

Except that the floral tiara which Lovey had placed on her hair was now lost, Selma was dressed as she had been for the wedding, but there were stains on the lace and gown, made when champagne spilled from the glasses of guests who had pressed too close to offer wishes for her happiness.

Perfectly confident, Bonard went to her and crushed her to him. Presently, she pushed him away. “No, Bonard.” He looked at her surprised and took her to him again. After a moment during which his hands moved and groped her flesh, she pulled away and slapped his face, not having calculated to do so, but being tired and taking offense at his insensitivity, and finding his face close at hand. The slap shocked him to alertness. He was tired too, and he had drunk beyond his usual capacity to absorb and use the alcohol he took in. He reached with both hands.

“Don’t! Please don’t, Bonard!”

The dress began to tear at the neck where he had caught it. She slapped at his hands, and he moved them down to her breasts and squeezed hard. She pushed him away. He lost his balance and fell to the floor; then panting and angry, got to his feet and threw himself at her, outraged at her rejection.

Close, body to body, face to face, hands engaging hands, they struggled, equally at first, but his strength, now inspired by anger, outlasted hers.

“Your father will hear—” she warned desperately.

He shook his head. “He sleeps downstairs by the kitchen now—”

“Trudy—your mother—” she said, to threaten him, but also as if she hoped for help from them. Bonard went to the door to the hallway and opened it a crack. The sounds of music and dancing came from below at such a steady pitch it was obvious the celebrants would hear nothing beyond their own clamor.

Bonard closed the door and turned to Selma. They stared at each other. He caught her by the arm as she began to move away, and she cried out, but his free hand slapped and then held her mouth tightly so that she could only moan. In clumsy fury he ripped her dress away in shreds and great, hanging pieces. When she freed herself enough to scream again, he held her from behind with one hand slapped again over her mouth. They both breathed heavily, as much from exhaustion as from emotion. Bonard, still holding her mouth closed, said, his voice puzzled and pleading, “What’s got into you, Selma? You’re supposed to let me!”

She struggled.

“Don’t you know anything? Didn’t anybody ever tell you?”