Stanton, with his coat off and his strong arms bare to the elbow, was planing down a shelf to make it fit into its place, and as he paused to shake the long creamy shavings out of his plane, he looked up to say apologetically,—
"I'm making an awful litter, ma'am, but I don't see how I can help it."
Mrs. Sampson laughed.
"Oh, it isn't of the least consequence," she answered. "If I was inclined to complain it would be because after keeping me waiting for six weeks for this work, you come just when I have company staying with me, and gentlemen coming to dine."
She had walked into the room with a not illy simulated air of having come with the intention of going out again immediately, and stood well posed, so that her fine figure came out in relief against a crimson Japanese screen.
"I haven't anything to do with that, ma'am," Stanton replied. "The boss makes out the orders, and we go where we are sent."
"Well," the widow said, smiling brilliantly, and moving across the room to the table where the dishes taken from the closet were piled, "it can't be helped, I suppose; but I hope you will let me get things cleared up in time for dinner."
"Oh, I'll surely get through by eleven or half past."
"And I don't have dinner till half past six."
The carpenter looked up questioningly. Then he went on with his work.