“You must come in, if it’s only for a minute,” said Mrs. Baines, with decision.  She had to think of the honour of the town.

“You’re very kind,” said Mr. Scales.

The door was suddenly opened from within, and Maggie surveyed them from the height of the two steps.

“A happy New Year, mum, to all of you.”

“Thank you, Maggie,” said Mrs. Baines, and primly added: 

“The same to you!” And in her own mind she said that Maggie could best prove her desire for a happy new year by contriving in future not to ‘scamp her corners,’ and not to break so much crockery.

Sophia, scarce knowing what she did, mounted the steps.

“Mr. Scales ought to let our New Year in, my pet,” Mrs. Baines stopped her.

“Oh, of course, mother!” Sophia concurred with, a gasp, springing back nervously.

Mr. Scales raised his hat, and duly let the new year, and much snow, into the Baines parlour.  And there was a vast deal of stamping of feet, agitating of umbrellas, and shaking of cloaks and ulsters on the doormat in the corner by the harmonium.  And Maggie took away an armful of everything snowy, including goloshes, and received instructions to boil milk and to bring ‘mince.’  Mr. Povey said “B-r-r-r!” and shut the door (which was bordered with felt to stop ventilation); Mrs. Baines turned up the gas till it sang, and told Sophia to poke the fire, and actually told Constance to light the second gas.

Excitement prevailed.

The placidity of existence had been agreeably disturbed (yes, agreeably, in spite of horror at the attack on Mr. Scales’s elbow) by an adventure.  Moreover, Mr. Scales proved to be in evening-dress.  And nobody had ever worn evening-dress in that house before.

Sophia’s blood was in her face, and it remained there, enhancing the vivid richness of her beauty.  She was dizzy with a strange and disconcerting intoxication.  She seemed to be in a world of unrealities and incredibilities.  Her ears heard with indistinctness, and the edges of things and people had a prismatic colouring.  She was in a state of ecstatic, unreasonable, inexplicable happiness.  All her misery, doubts, despair, rancour, churlishness, had disappeared.  She was as softly gentle as Constance.  Her eyes were the eyes of a fawn, and her gestures delicious in their modest and sensitive grace.  Constance was sitting on the sofa, and, after glancing about as if for shelter, she sat down on the sofa by Constance’s side.  She tried not to stare at Mr. Scales, but her gaze would not leave him.  She was sure that he was the most perfect man in the world.  A shortish man, perhaps, but a perfect.  That such perfection could be was almost past her belief.  He excelled all her dreams of the ideal man.  His smile, his voice, his hand, his hair—­never were such!  Why, when he spoke—­it was positively music!  When he smiled—­it was heaven!  His smile, to Sophia, was one of those natural phenomena