The door was suddenly opened from within, and Maggie surveyed them from the height of the two steps.
“A happy New Year, mum, to all of you.”
“Thank you, Maggie,” said Mrs. Baines, and primly added:
“The same to you!” And in her own mind she said that Maggie could best prove her desire for a happy new year by contriving in future not to 'scamp her corners,’ and not to break so much crockery.
Sophia, scarce knowing what she did, mounted the steps.
“Mr. Scales ought to let our New Year in, my pet,” Mrs. Baines stopped her.
“Oh, of course, mother!” Sophia concurred with, a gasp, springing back nervously.
Mr. Scales raised his hat, and duly let the new year, and much snow, into the Baines parlour. And there was a vast deal of stamping of feet, agitating of umbrellas, and shaking of cloaks and ulsters on the doormat in the corner by the harmonium. And Maggie took away an armful of everything snowy, including goloshes, and received instructions to boil milk and to bring ‘mince.’ Mr. Povey said “B-r-r-r!” and shut the door (which was bordered with felt to stop ventilation); Mrs. Baines turned up the gas till it sang, and told Sophia to poke the fire, and actually told Constance to light the second gas.
Excitement prevailed.
The placidity of existence had been agreeably disturbed (yes, agreeably, in spite of horror at the attack on Mr. Scales’s elbow) by an adventure. Moreover, Mr. Scales proved to be in evening-dress. And nobody had ever worn evening-dress in that house before.