When the work of covering the window was done and her tools put away, Dolly sighed and took a long look around the dining room. It was plain that even during Mr. Wojtas’s tenure as caretaker, he had not loved the house, only tolerated it. Perhaps he had provided it with the bare essentials—heat in the winter, a patch here or there in the plaster, as though tossing a thoughtless plate of raw hamburger to a caged lion—but clearly he’d had no real regard for the house’s well-being. From the ruined rug, which was a rich pattern of gold and brown and beige, all the way up to the golden chandelier that hung dripping with cobwebs above the table, the room was all gold and should have glimmered. A rich wood—now dulled and dusty—ran halfway up the walls, framed the doors and windows, and formed a built-in buffet along the wall to Dolly’s right; above the wainscoting, the walls were papered a watery gold to match the chairs’ upholstery. Opposite Dolly, at the other end of the long table, was an opalescent marble fireplace; a golden candelabra, its candles tipped at drunken angles, stood sentinel on the mantel. Dust on the glass of the buffet and the cabinet that stood in the far corner obscured the dishes still stacked inside. Dolly stepped over to the buffet and pulled open one of its doors. She crouched down to examine the white china rimmed in gold, the gilded tureens, the golden sauceboats, running her fingers over their smoothness, imagining the parties that must have gone on in this house, the music, the dancing. She imagined the triumph of serving coffee to the Ladies Aid using such china. It wouldn’t be as great as flying an airplane, but at least Byron wouldn’t disapprove.