“I knows whar Miss Quentin is,” Luster said.
“Den jes keep hit,” Dilsey said. “Soon es Quentin need any of yo egvice, I’ll let you know. Y’all g’awn en play in de back, now.”
“You know whut gwine happen soon es dey start playin dat ball over yonder,” Luster said.
“Dey wont start fer awhile yit. By dat time T.P. be here to take him ridin. Here, you gimme dat new hat.”
Luster gave her the hat and he and Ben went on across the back yard. Ben was still whimpering, though not loud. Dilsey and Frony went to the cabin. After a while Dilsey emerged, again in the faded calico dress, and went to the kitchen. The fire had died down. There was no sound in the house. She put on the apron and went up stairs. There was no sound anywhere. Quentin’s room was as they had left it. She entered and picked up the undergarment and put the stocking back in the drawer and closed it. Mrs Compson’s door was closed. Dilsey stood beside it for a moment, listening. Then she opened it and entered, entered a pervading reek of camphor. The shades were drawn, the room in halflight, and the bed, so that at first she thought Mrs Compson was asleep and was about to close the door when the other spoke.
“Well?” she said, “What is it?”
“Hit’s me,” Dilsey said. “You want anything?”
Mrs Compson didn’t answer. After awhile, without moving her head at all, she said: “Where’s Jason?”
“He aint come back yit,” Dilsey said. “Whut you want?”
Mrs Compson said nothing. Like so many cold, weak people, when faced at last by the incontrovertible disaster she exhumed from somewhere a sort of fortitude, strength. In her case it was an unshakable conviction regarding the yet unplumbed event. “Well,” she said presently, “Did you find it?”