Ridley bought Sally a filigree necklace that was flashy enough to please her and cheap enough not to offend his parsimony. He also bought a narrow gold ring, scarce more than a curtain band, which he pushed into his uniform pocket. The purchases, with the parasol and linen hat, cost him fourteen dollars, and the brisket of beef that he bought as dinner in the Spotswood House cost another dollar thirty. He was lulling Sally’s apprehensions, and the price was worth it if she went quietly to whatever fate awaited her. He gave her wine to drink with the meal, and brandy afterward. She wanted a cigar and was quite unworried that no other lady in the dining room chose to smoke. “I’ve always liked a cigar. My ma used a pipe, but I like a cigar.” She smoked contentedly, oblivious of the amused stares of the other diners. “This is real nice.” She had taken to luxury like a starved cat to a creamery.

“You should get used to this sort of place,” Ridley said. He lolled in his chair, an elegantly booted leg propped on the cold radiator that stood beneath the window and looked onto the hotel’s courtyard. His scabbarded saber hung from its slings on the radiator’s purge valve. “I am going to make you a lady,” he lied to her. “I am going to teach you how a lady speaks, how a lady behaves, how a lady eats, how a lady dances, how a lady reads, how a lady dresses. I am going to make you into a great lady.”

She smiled. To be a great lady was Sally’s dream. She imagined herself in silks and lace, ruling a parlor like the one in Belvedere Delaney’s house, no, an even bigger parlor, a vast parlor, a parlor with cliffs for walls and a vaulted heaven for a ceiling and golden furniture and hot water all day long. “Are we really looking for a house this afternoon?” she asked wistfully. “I’m real tired of Mrs. Cobbold.” Mrs. Cobbold owned the boardinghouse in Monroe Street and was suspicious of Ridley’s relationship with Sally.

“We’re not looking for a house,” Ridley corrected her, “but a set of rooms. My brother knows some that are for rent.”

“Rooms.” She was suspicious.

“Large rooms. Tall ceilings, carpets.” Ridley waved his hands to suggest opulence. “A place you can keep your own niggers.”

“I can have a nigger?” she asked excitedly.

“Two.” Ridley embroidered his promise. “You can have a maid and a cook. Then, of course, when the baby comes, you can have a nurse.”