It was such a languorous afternoon in January that a furniture van, accompanied by certain nondescript persons known as United States Police, pulled up at the curb in front of Mr. Carvel’s house.  Eugenie, watching at the window across the street, ran to tell her father, who came out on his steps and reviled the van with all the fluency of his French ancestors.

Mammy Easter opened the door, and then stood with her arms akimbo, amply filling its place.  Her lips protruded, and an expression of defiance hard to describe sat on her honest black face.

“Is this Colonel Carvel’s house?”

“Yassir.  I ’low you knows dat jes as well as me.”  An embarrassed silence, and then from Mammy, “Whaffor you laffin at?”

“Is the Colonel at home?”

“Now I reckon you knows dat he ain’t.  Ef he was, you ain’t come here ‘quirin’ in dat honey voice.” (Raising her own voice.) “You tink I dunno whaffor you come?  You done come heah to rifle, an’ to loot, an’ to steal, an’ to seize what ain’t your’n.  You come heah when young Marse ain’t to home ter rob him.” (Still louder.) “Ned, whaffor you hidin’ yonder?  Ef yo’ ain’t man to protect Marse Comyn’s prop-ty, jes han’ over Marse Comyn’s gun.”

The marshal and his men had stood, half amused, more than half baffled by this unexpected resistance.  Mammy Easter looked so dangerous that it was evident she was not to be passed without extreme bodily discomfort.

“Is your mistress here?”

This question was unfortunate in the extreme.

“You—­you white trash!” cried Mammy, bursting with indignation.  “Who is you to come heah ‘quiring fo’ her!  I ain’t agwine—­”

“Mammy!”

“Yas’m!  Yas, Miss Jinny.”  Mammy backed out of the door and clutched at her bandanna.

“Mammy, what is all this noise about?” The torrent was loosed once more.

“These heah men, Miss Jinny, was gwine f’r t’ carry away all yo’ pa’s blongin’s.  I jes’ tol’ ’em dey ain’t comin’ in ovah dis heah body.”

The deputy had his foot on the threshold.  He caught sight of the face of Miss Carvel within, and stopped abruptly.

“I have a warrant here from the Provost Marshal, ma’am, to seize personal property to satisfy a claim against Colonel Carvel.”

Virginia took the order, read it, and handed it back.  “I do not see how I am to prevent you,” she said.  The deputy was plainly abashed.

“I’m sorry, Miss.  I—­I can’t tell you how sorry I am.  But it’s got to be done.”

Virginia nodded coldly.  And still the man hesitated.  “What are you waiting for?” she said.

The deputy wiped his muddy feet.  He made his men do likewise.  Then he entered the chill drawing-room, threw open the blinds and glanced around him.

“I expect all that we want is right here,” he said.  And at the sight of the great chandelier, with its cut-glass crystals, he whistled.  Then he walked over to the big English Rothfield piano and lifted the lid.