“You think that Mr. Macnair ought to take cognizance of it officially?” asked Miss Atkins. (Being the secretary she used many beautiful words.)

“I do.”

“But he and Mrs. Coombe are such friends!” objected the younger Miss Sinclair, who was a kindly creature.

An electric silence fell upon the quilters.  Every one looked toward the president.

“I cannot allow such insinuations to be made at this meeting,” said the President firmly.

“But—­but I did not insinuate anything!” stammered poor Miss Jessie who, severely jogged by her sister and transfixed by the President’s eye, had turned the colour of the crimson square before her.

“We all know,” went on the President more mildly, “that Mr. Macnair calls fairly often at the Elms.  We may even have heard rumours to the effect that he intends—­I hardly know how to phrase it, but as our minister is unmarried and Mrs. Coombe is a widow you will understand what I mean.  But, ladies, I may state on no less an authority than Miss Annabel that Mr. Macnair has no such intentions.  There is absolutely nothing in it.  His calls no doubt may be accounted for by the presence of—­er—­affliction in the house.”

“Do you mean Aunt Amy?” A younger woman with a clever and rather pretty face looked up.  “Why, can’t you see that there is a much simpler explanation than that?”

It was certainly unfortunate that Mrs. Coombe should have chosen this moment to arrive.  But the Ladies’ Aid were used to interrupted statements.  It was felt to be very convenient that one of the windows looked out directly upon the steps so that the meeting was never quite taken by surprise.  A sudden pause there might be, but late arrivals had learned to expect that.  It was the penalty for being late.

“Dear Mrs. Coombe, so glad you have come!” said the hostess pleasantly.  “No, you are not very late.  We are only just beginning.”

Every one nodded and smiled.  Chairs were moved and sewing shifted to provide space for the newcomer.  A few left their work in order to shake hands and there was a general readjustment of everything, including topics of conversation.  In the space of a few seconds it was noticed that Mrs. Coombe wore a new hat, a new gown, new slippers and silk stockings and that in spite of all these advantages they had never seen her look worse.

“Dear Mrs. Coombe, I think your belt-pin has become—­allow me!” Miss Milligan, dressmaker in private life, with a discreet swiftness, twitched the blouse and skirt into place and deftly fastened it.  At the same time she closed a gap in the fastening of the blouse itself.

Mary Coombe laughed.  “Dear me!  Am I undone?  I must have forgotten to ask Amy to fix me.  These blouses that fasten in the back are such a nuisance!”

The President smiled politely, but with evident effort.  Mrs. Coombe was a prominent member.  Still, on principle, she, a president, could not be expected to approve of people who forgot to have themselves done up.  Supposing the minister had been present!