Medda pinched her cheeks to make them rosier. Ever since Race had told her about Roger's latest plot, she had been a little pale. She wasn't frightened of him, but she had seen what happened to those who were insolent. She rang the bell with one hand and held onto her shawl with the other. She wore blue, a change from her usual lavender. Race seemed to enjoy seeing new sides of her. She planned to talk with Roger, and then meet Race outside Irving Hall.

Finally the door opened. A tall man stood there in an expensive suit. His dark hair was thinning, but the toothy grin on his face seemed never ending. "Medda Larkson!" He kissed her cheeks. "Darling! Won't you come in?"

"I'd rather not," she said shortly. "I don't want to be here long. I just came to tell you that I read the article in the paper and I will not be marring you."

He looked confused, but she knew he was faking it. "Article? What article?"

"I've had enough of your games, Roger," she snarled.

"Listen, Medda," he said, roughly grabbing her arm. "You don't have a choice. I'm the man, I've got the money, not to mention your father's permission."

"My father is dead," she said, trying to pull her arm away.

"He wasn't ten years ago when we both expected you to say 'yes.'"

"Well, what about my rights?" she demanded.

"Your rights?" He laughed. "You don't have any—you're a woman."

He started pulling her inside and she pounded his hand with her fists. "What are you doing? Get your hands off me!"

The sound of the slamming door echoed in the long, dark corridor.