“Haar’s cards, Miss Quincy,” she said, “Dar’s twa ladies down staars.”
She dropped the cards on the floor and disappeared. Lena, in great curiosity, picked them up and read aloud:
“‘Mrs. Francis Lenox; Miss Elton.’”
“For the land’s sake! Who air they?” asked her mother.
“Two of the biggest swells in town.”
“Well, what on earth do they want here? We ain’t very swell.”
“Perhaps they want me to report some party or something,” said Lena.
She was losing no time in giving her hair one or two becoming jerks and going through a series of wriggles meant to impart grace and style to her costume.
“Perhaps they want to give you a million dollars,” said Mrs. Quincy sarcastically.
Lena, with heart burning with mingled shame at her own shabby surroundings, curiosity at their errand, and awe for the mighty names, entered the little parlor which gave the impression of never having been cleaned since it was born with its cheap worn plush furniture, its crayon portraits and its two vases of gaudy blue and gold. She faced the two ladies seated on the impossible chairs. Lena was almost as startling an apparition in that room as was Ram Juna’s rose in the dusty phial—whether a miracle or a clever trick. She looked so untouched by any vulgarity in her surroundings, so fresh and true, so instinct with virgin dignity, that the eyes that met her own were filled with the tribute of surprise; and she exulted in some hidden corner of her soul.