On her way out, she passed a delegation of black men, all young and well-dressed, heading for Norwood’s office. She recognized the preacher from the train—fair-skinned, with wavy, neatly combed hair. He was as light-skinned as Norwood. When he didn’t speak to her, she touched his arm. “Excuse me,” she said. “Don’t you remember? We met on the train.”

He stared at her, a hard look, then his blue eyes softened. “You were the one,” he said.

“Somebody had to do something,” she explained. She was vaguely proud of herself.

“You should have let them throw me off,” he said in a mellifluous voice.

“You wanted to provoke them? I don’t under—”

“That’s right,” he said. “You don’t. That’s a good thing to remember.”

“Come on, brother,” said one of the young men. “The man’s waiting.”

The preacher never took his eyes off Gray Ellen.

“At least tell me your name,” she said. “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” he said in that same honey-dripping voice. “I have seen you before, in every city.” He raised a finger and smiled graciously. “But you don’t know who I am. You have no idea.”

What in the world was this all about? The other men grinned at her. “That’s right,” they agreed. “Tell the woman the truth, preacher.”

She was feeling bullied, the way the preacher must have felt on the train. Only, unlike him, she wasn’t trying to provoke anybody to do anything. She was just getting mad. “You must have a name.” She didn’t care any longer who this arrogant man was, but she wasn’t backing down. He smiled without showing any teeth, looking handsome and sly. “Never mind,” she said. “Forget it. What do I care?” She turned from him.

“Mrs. Jenks,” he said quietly.

She turned back, startled at the mention of her name.

“I am Ivanhoe Grant, a preacher of the Lord.” He bowed ever so slightly from the waist.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m very happy for you.” How fitting, she thought—named after a silly medieval character in a book and a whiskey-sotted Yankee general.

“Perhaps I’ve misjudged you,” he said sweetly.

She almost believed him. “Never mind. I’ll just try to pick up the pieces of my shattered life and move on.”

He laughed—a big, sonorous laugh. As soon as he laughed, against all better judgment, she found herself liking him. She had the uneasy sense that he had somehow been testing her, and now she had passed. He seemed to relax, but she was still agitated. This morning, everybody around her seemed to be talking in riddles, and she resented it—it was like hearing every second word of a question and being expected to come up with a good answer. She felt rattled and out of control, teased, but for what purpose? Everybody was saying something other than what they meant.