At that moment, Herbert lost his balance and flew backward.
“No!” Neville’s hand shot impotently forward. But it was too late.
Herbert tripped, twisted, and leapt in a sloppy attempt to stay upright, but his body slammed into the table-made-sequoia-made-boat-made-table crushing it on impact. Boards splintered, glass shattered and the coffee set, china, dishes, and pots flew across the room smashing against walls, floors, and guests. Herbert’s limpid body lay in a heap on the floor.
A gaggle of screeching, lugubrious women rushed instantly to Herbert’s side.
Another shriek resonated from the lounge. “Police!”
“Police raid!”
“Let’s get out of here!”
Mass chaos ensued.
Mrs. Dixon flattened her back against the door as the most refined, austere, and puritanical that the South had
