She was still breathless from running down the stairs to halt the pounding that had begun and not stopped, loud enough to disturb Father even in his swoon. Had it been, as she’d expected, some rude youth, perhaps with knocking fist still raised, she was fully prepared to offer up a sharp lesson in visiting etiquette. Yanking the door open to find an elderly dandy, barely higher than her own chin though dressed in (according to Sears and Roebuck) the very height of fashion, well, it quite took the wind out of her sails. She noticed he clutched a large, buff-colored envelope in both small hands. Now how in the world did he pound like that with both hands full? she wondered, then noticed the muddy streaks marring the bottom of her door. “I’ll see Wilbur Clarke, if you please,” the little man said, his voice high, nasal, and imperious. Eva merely stared at his soaked and mud-covered (though still stylish) left shoe.
