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right to work, but I’ll give you a lift down Woodward—in a horse-powered vehicle, of course.”
    Tom hesitated. He was off today because tonight he would overhaul the three-drum traveling belt sander. He lived a few blocks from the factory, though, and having correctly read a command into the Major’s good-natured offer, he said, “Thank you, sir.”
    III
    As they emerged into the hall a girl was descending the staircase, moving swiftly through the varicolored light of the Tiffany glass window, one hand skimming down the thick banister, her navy skirt catching on each step for an infinitesimal fraction of time to reveal a white foam of petticoats.
    When she reached the bottom the Major said, “Antonia, my dear, you’re up with the birds. Come here and let me introduce one of my most valued men. May I present Mr. Bridger. Bridger, this is my niece, Miss Dalzell.”
    The previous March, Tom, along with all Stuart employees and members of Detroit’s best families, had stood in the driving sleet by the open grave of the Major’s father, Isaac Stuart. The Major was the only relative at Woodmere Cemetery. Tom, therefore, knew niece was a euphemism. For mistress. Factory gossip had it that the Major always referred to his mistresses as “niece,” or “my young cousin.”
    The girl smiled at him.
    She’s beautiful, he thought. An instant later he was changing his mind. The shiny mass of black hair loosely confined by a bow, the large, thickly lashed eyes, also very dark, were certainly beautiful. So was the luminous skin. But the impetuous thrust of her narrow nose was not. And the eagerly smiling mouth was too full in the sparely fleshed face. Too tall, Tom decided, and entirely too thin. Her white cambric shirtwaist barely hinted at breasts, her shoulders were childishly fragile, her hips narrow. She can’t be more than sixteen, he thought.
    But the poignancy of her youth dissolved for him when she linked her arm in the Major’s meaty one. “How nice to meet you, Mr. Bridger,” she said. “You’re the first Detroiter I’ve met.”
    â€œMy niece arrived the day before yesterday.”
    â€œA shame for you, Miss Dalzell. You missed our summer. Heat brings out mosquitoes, and the largest, finest mosquitoes in North America are found in Detroit.” Tom attempted a bantering tone. He always did with girls. They flurried him, all of them, including the chippies he paid upstairs in the Golden Age Saloon.
    â€œAh, well,” said Antonia Dalzell. “I’ll have to imagine I’ve been bitten.”
    â€œYou won’t be able to conjure up our mugginess. It’s the envy of Turkish baths.”
    â€œAlas for me, so deprived.”
    â€œMaybe we can manage an Indian summer for you.”
    She laughed, a musical sound.
    The Major frowned. “I hear the carriage. My dear, I’ll see you this evening.”
    â€œYou better be on time,” she warned.
    Obviously this was a joke between them. The Major chuckled. “I’ll be devilishly on time.”
    Antonia extended a narrow, ringless hand, and her fingers briefly warmed Tom’s. “I’ll be expecting that Indian summer, Mr. Bridger. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
    â€œLikewise, Miss Dalzell,” Tom said. She was beautiful, he had decided, breathtakingly beautiful. And when the Major kissed her cheek, Tom was charged with an emotion that he had never experienced before and that he could not comprehend. How could Antonia Dalzell be a “niece” of the Major’s?
    IV
    Woodward Avenue was broad, seventy-five feet wide, and the Major’s lacquered victoria joined the smart equipages now rolling toward downtown. Hooves drummed cheerfully on the uneven cedar paving blocks and the bells rang as bicycles swerved around steaming fresh horse apples.
    In Cadillac Square the Major reined at the raffishly ornate marble wedding cake that was