Max seemed exasperated. She couldn’t steal a dress, he told her. Alma repeated that she was only borrowing it, and pointed out—reasonably—that it was all of them who had done the stealing, by drinking half a bottle of bourbon.

“For all we know,” Max said, “the people who own that house could be there at the dance on Friday. What happens if they recognize it?”

Alma brightened. “That would be funny.”

Max gave up, waving her off. Clara said she hoped she had a dress herself, or she might have to steal one too—and then, changing tack, she said, “My angels, you’re not really leaving Saturday, are you?”

Effie said they were, regrettably. She looked at Henry. “I guess it’ll be good to get back and settle into the new place.” She began to tell them how Henry’s uncle was having a new wing built onto the house, but Clara interrupted her.

“How can I convince you to stay? Just one more week.”

Henry smiled. She really wanted them to stay. He wondered why—then batted the thought away. Why not? He and Effie were good company.

“Maybe we could stay another day,” Effie said, “but we’ve got to be out of that house this weekend. It was a whole ordeal getting the two weeks we had.”

“Well, if that’s all there is to it,” Clara said, “then it’s settled. You’ll stay here. I told you, we’ve got a million rooms.”

“That’s a fine idea,” Max said.

Effie laughed. “We can’t just bum around up here forever.”

“Not forever,” Clara said. “Just a few more days. You’ve got your whole lives ahead of you, you darlings—but trust me. This is your honeymoon. Make it last.”

Effie looked at Henry and said, “I mean, maybe.”

It would be an early night. Alma took a candle and went up to her room. The rest of them, after they’d cleared the coffee table, made drinks and played a game of dice that Max had learned in Montreal, but he had trouble remembering the rules, and soon Clara couldn’t control her yawning. It spread to Effie. “I’m depleted,” she said finally. They blew the candles out, saving one for Henry and Effie, and Clara led them upstairs, bearing the kerosene lamp, to the most comfortable guest room—where Scott and Betsy stayed, she said. There was a tall bed with a thick quilt, varnished wood walls, and a deep bay window. They should make themselves perfectly at home. She kissed their cheeks—Henry loved that gesture, so European—and said good night.