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Sunday dawns muggy. The eight‑o'clock news says there was scattered shooting again last night in York and the western part of the state. Edgartown police chief Dominick J. Arena is expected today formally to charge Senator Kennedy with leaving the scene of an accident. Apollo Eleven is in lunar orbit and the Eagle is being readied for its historic descent. Rabbit slept badly and turns the box off and walks around the lawn barefoot to shock the headache out of his skull. The houses of Penn Villas are still, with the odd Catholic car roaring off to mass. Nelson comes down around nine, and after making him breakfast Harry goes back to bed with a cup of coffee and the Sunday Brewer Standard. Snoopy on the front page of the funny papers is lying dreaming on his doghouse and soon Rabbit falls asleep. The kid looked scared. The boy's face shouts, and a soundless balloon comes out. When he awakes, the electric clock says five of eleven. The second hand sweeps around and around; a wonder the gears don't wear themselves to dust. Rabbit dresses ‑ fresh white shirt out of respect for Sunday ‑ and goes downstairs the second time, his feet still bare, the carpeting fuzzy to his soles, a bachelor feeling. The house feels enormous, all his. He picks up the phone book and searches out Stavros Chas 1204EisenhwerAv He doesn't dial, merely gazes at the name and the number as if to see his wife, smaller than a pencil dot, crawling between the letters. He dials a number he knows by heart. His father answers. "Yes?" A wary voice, ready to hang up on a madman or a salesman. "Pop, hi; hey, I hope you didn't wait up or anything the other night, we weren't able to make it and I couldn't even get to a phone." A little pause, not much, just enough to let him know they were indeed disappointed. "No, we figured something came up and went to bed about the usual time. Your mother isn't one to waste herself complaining, as you know." "Right. Well, look. About today." His voice goes hoarse to whisper, "Harry, you must come over today. You'll break her heart if you don't." "I will, I will, but -" The old man has cupped his mouth against the receiver, urging hoarsely, "This may be her last, you know. Birthday." "We're coming, Pop. I mean, some of us are. Janice has had to go off." "Go off how?" "It's kind of complicated, something about her mother's legs and the Poconos, she decided last night she had to, I don't know. It's nothing to worry about. Everybody's all right, she's just not here. The kid's here though." To illustrate, he calls, "Nelson!" There is no answer. "He must be out on his bike, Pop. He's been right around all morning. When would you like us?" "Whenever it suits you, Harry. Late afternoon or so. Come as early as you can. We're having roast beef. Your mother wanted to bake a cake but the doctor thought it might be too much for her. I bought a nice one over at the Half‑A‑Loaf. Butterscotch icing, didn't that used to be your favorite?" "It's her birthday, not mine. What should I get her for a present?"

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When the next morning came and Charles took up his un­gentle probing of Sam’s Cockney heart, he was not in fact betraying Ernestina, whatever may have been the case with Mrs. Poulteney. They had left shortly following the exchange described above, and Ernestina had been very silent on the walk downhill to Broad Street. Once there she had seen to it that she was left alone with Charles; and no sooner had the door shut on her aunt’s back than she burst into tears (without the usual preliminary self-accusations) and threw herself into his arms. It was the first disagreement that had ever darkened their love, and it horrified her: that her sweet gentle Charles should be snubbed by a horrid old woman, and all because of a fit of pique on her part. When he had dutifully patted her back and dried her eyes, she said as much. Charles stole a kiss on each wet eyelid as a revenge, and forthwith forgave her. “And my sweet, silly Tina, why should we deny to others what has made us both so happy? What if this wicked maid and my rascal Sam should fall in love? Are we to throw stones?” She smiled up at him from her chair. “This is what comes of trying to behave like a grown-up.” He knelt beside her and took her hand. “Sweet child. You will always be that to me.” She bent her head to kiss his hand, and he in turn kissed the top of her hair. She murmured, “Eighty-eight days. I cannot bear the thought.” “Let us elope. And go to Paris.” “Charles . . . what wickedness!” She raised her head, and he kissed her on the lips. She sank back against the corner of the chair, dewy-eyed, blush­ing, her heart beating so fast that she thought she would faint; too frail for such sudden changes of emotion. He retained her hand, and pressed it playfully. “If the worthy Mrs. P. could see us now?” She covered her face with her hands, and began to laugh, choked giggles that communicated themselves to Charles and forced him to get to his feet and go to the window, and pretend to be dignified—but he could not help looking back, and caught her eyes between her fingers. There were more choked sounds in the silent room. To both came the same insight: the wonderful new freedoms their age brought, how wonderful it was to be thoroughly modern young people, with a thoroughly modern sense of humor, a millennium away from . . . “Oh Charles ... oh Charles ... do you remember the Early Cretaceous lady?” That set them off again; and thoroughly mystified poor Mrs. Tranter, who had been on hot coals outside, sensing that a quarrel must be taking place. She at last plucked up courage to enter, to see if she could mend. Tina, still laugh­ing, ran to her at the door and kissed her on both cheeks. “Dear, dear aunt. You are not too fond. I am a horrid, spoiled child. And I do not want my green walking dress. May I give it to Mary?” Thus it was that later that same day Ernestina figured, and sincerely, in Mary’s prayers. I doubt if they were heard, for instead of getting straight into bed after she had risen from her knees, as all good prayer-makers should, Mary could not resist trying the green dress on one last time. She had only a candle’s light to see by, but candlelight never did badly by any woman. That cloud of falling golden hair, that vivacious green, those trembling shadows, that shy, delighted, self-surprised face ... if her God was watching, He must have wished Himself the Fallen One that night. “I have decided, Sam, that I do not need you.” Charles could not see Sam’s face, for his eyes were closed. He was being shaved. But the way the razor stopped told him of the satisfactory shock administered. “You may return to Ken­sington.” There was a silence that would have softened the heart of any less sadistic master. “You have nothing to say?” “Yes, sir. Be ‘appier “ere.” “I have decided you are up to no good. I am well aware that that is your natural condition. But I prefer you to be up to no good in London. Which is more used to up-to-no-gooders.” “I ain’t done nothink, Mr. Charles.” “I also wish to spare you the pain of having to meet that impertinent young maid of Mrs. Tranter’s.” There was an audible outbreath. Charles cautiously opened an eye. “Is that not kind of me?” Sam stared stonily over his master’s head. “She ‘as made halopogies. I’ave haccepted them.” “What! From a mere milkmaid? Impossible.” Charles had to close his eye then in a hurry, to avoid a roughly applied brushful of lather. “It was higgerance, Mr. Charles. Sheer higgerance.” “I see. Then matters are worse than I thought. You must certainly decamp.” But Sam had had enough. He let the lather stay where it was, until Charles was obliged to open his eyes and see what was happening. What was happening was that Sam stood in a fit of the sulks; or at least with the semblance of it. “Now what is wrong?” “’Er, sir.” “Ursa? Are you speaking Latin now? Never mind, my wit is beyond you, you bear. Now I want the truth. Yesterday you were not prepared to touch the young lady with a bargee’s tool of trade? Do you deny that?” “I was provoked.” “Ah, but where is the primum mobile? Who provoked first?” But Charles now saw he had gone too far. The razor was trembling in Sam’s hand; not with murderous intent, but with suppressed indignation. Charles reached out and took it away from him; pointed it at him. “In twenty-four hours, Sam? In twenty-four hours?” Sam began to rub the washstand with the towel that was intended for Charles’s cheeks. There was a silence; and when he spoke it was with a choked voice. “We’re not ‘orses. We’re ‘ooman beings.” Charles smiled then, and stood, and went behind his man, and hand to his shoulder made him turn. “Sam, I apologize. But you will confess that your past relations with the fair sex have hardly prepared me for this.” Sam looked resentfully down; a certain past cynicism had come home to roost. “Now this girl—what is her name?— Mary?—this charming Miss Mary may be great fun to tease and be teased by—let me finish—but I am told she is a gentle trusting creature at heart. And I will not have that heart broken.” “Cut off me harms, Mr. Charles!” “Very well. I believe you, without the amputation. But you will not go to the house again, or address the young woman in the street, until I have spoken with Mrs. Tranter and found whether she permits your attentions.” Sam, whose eyes had been down, looked up then at his master; and he grinned ruefully, like some dying young soldier on the ground at his officer’s feet. “I’m a Derby duck, sir. I’m a bloomin’ Derby duck.” A Derby duck, I had better add, is one already cooked— and therefore quite beyond hope of resurrection.