Lauria, the protagonist of Charles L. Fontenay's 1957 story, is introduced descending a spiral staircase in regal dignity, then strapping a holstered pistol over her evening dress. This juxtaposition of formal femininity and lethal preparedness sets the tone for a narrative that tests the limits of a colony's founding principles. The framed Constitution of Pamplin, hand-lettered on parchment, lists four tenets, including 'Only the brave deserve the fair'—a rule Lauria has enforced with deadly precision. Twelve wooden markers in her garden cemetery attest to the men who died by her hand, in accordance with that law. Yet as the green sun slants through her parlor window, Lauria's aging face in the mirror reveals a woman beginning to doubt the code she has lived by.

A Constitution as Both Shield and Trap

The Constitution of Pamplin, displayed beside Lauria's mirror, is not mere backdrop but an active force in the story. Its four clauses—no government, a man's home his castle, equal rights, and 'Only the brave deserve the fair'—create a legal framework that privatizes justice and romanticizes violence. Lauria has internalized these rules so thoroughly that she has killed twelve men who attempted to claim her by force. Yet the constitution also traps her: it offers no provision for surrender or change of heart. When she begins to yearn for companionship, the same laws that empowered her now isolate her. The document's placement next to the mirror suggests that Lauria's identity is inseparable from its decrees, and her aging reflection signals a growing mismatch between the law's rigid ideals and her human needs.

The Cemetery as a Record of Violence

Lauria's garden contains a small cemetery with twelve upright wooden markers, each representing a man who died attempting to 'take' her. This detail transforms her home into a landscape of past violence. The markers are spaced in neat rows, suggesting a grim orderliness, and a large wooden plaque nearby repeats the Constitution of Pamplin. The cemetery is not hidden but part of the path she walks daily, a constant reminder of the cost of her independence. Fontenay does not describe the men or their attempts, leaving their stories untold; the markers function as abstract evidence of a system that turns courtship into lethal combat. Lauria pauses to look out across the rows, but the text offers no sentimentality—only the fact that these deaths were 'in accordance with the Constitution and the law.'

Aging, Appearance, and the Fear of Irrelevance

Lauria's preparation for her evening excursion is described with clinical precision: she fills in her mouth, dabs at her cheeks, touches up her eyes, and smears over her jawline. The mirror reveals 'a touch of slackness to the jaw' and 'faint hollowness of cheek,' which she attributes to dim lighting. This attention to cosmetic repair underscores her fear that her beauty—and therefore her value under the colony's code—is fading. She fluffs out 'thinning blond hair' and wears a light scarf, details that mark the passage of time. Later, when she confronts the intruder, she feels 'the age that crept up on her' and realizes the constitution's principles 'no longer held real meaning.' Her final surrender is not to love but to the terror of being unwanted: the intruder calls her 'old woman' and rejects her offer, seeking only her house.

Fontenay's story operates within a tight frame—a single evening, a single house, a single confrontation—but its implications ripple outward. Readers may note how the colony's libertarian ideals produce a society where isolation is the price of safety, and where the brave are not rewarded but buried. The ending, in which Lauria is disarmed and dismissed, offers no resolution, only a chilling inversion of the romance the constitution promised. Pay attention to the small details: the triple locks, the heavy bars, the baskets she weaves for income. They quietly sketch a life of labor and vigilance that the story's central drama threatens to undo.