CHAPTER XIV
The red lamps were all lighted in Mrs. Ivy's small parlor, and the disordered tea-table and general confusion of the overcrowded room, gave evidence that one of her frequent “at homes” had been brought to an end.
It might have been inferred that the hostess had also been brought to an end, to judge from her closed eyes and clasped hands, and the effort with which she inhaled her breath and the violence with which she exhaled it. The maid, clearing away the tea things, viewed her with apprehension.
“Excuse me, ma'm, but will you be havin' the hot-water bag?” she asked when she could endure the strain no longer.
Mrs. Ivy opened one reluctant eye and condescended to recall her spirit to the material world.
“Norah, how could you?” she asked plaintively. “Haven't I begged you never to disturb my meditation?”
“Yis, ma'm, but this, you might say, was worse than usual. Me mother's twin sister died of the asthmy.”
“Never speak to me when you see me entering into the silence. I was denying fatigue; now I shall have to begin all over!”
It was evidently difficult for Mrs. Ivy to again tranquilize her spirit. Her eyes roved fondly about the room, resting first upon one cherished object then upon another. Autographed photographs lined the walls, autographed volumes littered the tables. Above her head two small bronze censers sent wreaths of incense curling about a vast testimonial, acknowledging her valiant service in behalf of the anti-tobacco crusade. Flanking this were badges of divers shape and size, representing societies to which she belonged. In the cabinet at her left were still more disturbing treasures such as Gerald's first pair of shoes, and the gavel that the last president of the Federated Sisterhood had used before she had, as Mrs. Ivy was fond of saying, “been called upon to hand in her resignation by the Board of Death.”