And this was Tyler Fanning’s wife, because Demon was behind her with a gigantic market-basket in his hands. The basket sagged under a shock of fresh pink roses, a bushel at least. Excuse me … She had green eyes, large and somber; her upper lip was long, her mouth pulpy and wide and very soft.

“You are Daniel Bale?” she asked.

Demon ducked and nodded behind her.

“Yes ma’am,” Dan said, “and you must be—”

“I’m Mrs. Tyler Fanning.”

He knew that he was bowing.

“Mother Fanning wanted me to bring a few flowers. She is indisposed, and cannot attend the funeral. Demon, you have the basket.”

The old man gabbled, “Yes, Miss Irene. Yes, Mist Dan. I got it heh.”

“Thank you, Demon,” said Bale. “Take it in to Mrs. Wurke, won’t you?”

The servant edged past them with his damp, fragrant load, then turned and rolled his eye at Dan. One eye was blind, dead and blue. His face was a scrolly mass of pockmarked brown tin. “Mist Ty, he captain, Mist Dan! Yessu. He captain! He make ’em damn rebel scoot.” He cackled happily, and limped away toward the back porch.

Dan said, “It was kind of you, and kind of Mrs. Fanning, to remember my grandfather. I can see that the roses in our garden are very poorly. Neglect, no doubt.” Oh, you—I cannot remove my eyes from you—they have congealed warmly against your skin—

“We are rich in roses,” she told him primly. She had a white glove drawn tight over one hand and forearm; in the other little square-nailed hand she held its mate, a twisted scrap. “Tyler said that you rode from the Junction together in the cars.”

“Yes. He looks ill.”

Her eyelashes were long, thin, ginger-colored. She had high cheek bones, full nostrils. That mouth again … you woman, I … “He is not well at all. He had a bad wound, and has not yet recovered. I wrote to the Colonel, who was a friend of my father, and made him send Ty home. If only for a few days.”

“Yes,” he said. Yes. No doubt the best thing. Too bad he can’t stay a long time. Look at that comical dog; I would have thought he was dead by now. Your face is saying a great many strange things. What do you think of me, anyway?… What do I think? Why, I think you—and I’m not sure—I should know better than to have such a thought in my mind—perhaps after I have seen you many times … You should always wear black. Why should I? I don’t know: you should. You are in mourning for some madness which came about when you were born. Some mighty madness, a bestial and hungry kind—

“But he was ill again last night, and did not sleep until late. He’s sleeping soundly this morning.”