Mr. Tuxbury had been sitting in the parlor with his guests, trying his best to entertain them.  He had gotten out the photograph album for Lois, and a book of views in the Holy Land for her mother.  If he had felt in considerable haste to escape from his sister’s indignation and return to his visitors, they had been equally anxious for him to come.

When Mrs. Field and her daughter were left alone in the office, their first sensation was that of actual terror of each other.

Mrs. Field concealed hers well enough.  She sat up without a tremor in her unbending back, and looked out of the office door, which the lawyer had left open.  Just opposite the door, out on the sidewalk, two men stood talking.  She kept her eyes fastened upon them.

“What time did you start?” said she presently, in a harsh voice, which seemed to rudely shock the stillness.  She did not turn her eyes.

“I—­came—­on the first—­train,” answered Lois, pantingly.  Once in a while she stole furtive, wildly questioning glances at her mother, but her mother never met them.  She continued to look at the talking men on the sidewalk.

“Mother,” began Lois finally, in a desperate voice.  But just then Mr. Tuxbury had reappeared, and conducted them to his parlor.

The parlor had lace curtains and a Brussles carpet, and looked ornate to Mrs. Field and Lois.  The chairs were covered with green plush.  The two women sat timidly on the yielding cushions, and gazed during the pauses at the large flower pattern on the carpet.  All this fine furniture was, in fact, Mrs. Lowe’s; when she had given up her own home, and come to live with her brother, she had brought it with her.

Both of the guests arose awkwardly, Mrs. Field first and Lois after her, when Mrs. Lowe entered, and the lawyer introduced them.

“I’m happy to make your acquaintance,” said Mrs. Field.

“I believe I’ve seen you two or three times when you was here years ago,” said Mrs. Lowe, standing before her straight and tall in her faded calico gown, which fitted her uncompromisingly like a cuirass.  Mrs. Lowe’s gowns, no matter how thin and faded, always fitted her in that way.  Stretched over her long flat-chested figure, they seemed to acquire the consistency of armor.  “You ain’t changed any as I can see,” she went on, as she got scarcely any response to her first remark.  “I should have known you anywhere.  It’s a pleasant day, ain’t it?”

“Real pleasant,” replied Mrs. Field.  Mrs. Lowe sat down in one of the plush chairs.  To seat herself for a few minutes before announcing dinner was, she supposed, a matter of etiquette.  She held up her long rasped chin with a curt air, and, in spite of herself, her voice also was curt.  She was too thorough a New England woman to play with any success softening lights over the steel of her character.  She disdained to, and she was also unable to.  She was not pleased to receive these unexpected guests, and she showed it.