“She did not say, and I did not ask her.”
“No, so like you! But I shall ask her,” announced Mrs. Doran, with an air of stern decision.
Mrs. Aron, as she was called, did not appear at the Castle for nearly a week. She had caught a wetting, and a cold, and remained at “The Arms” under the ministrations of Mrs. Hogan, imbibing gruel and a wonderful assortment of local gossip. At last, one afternoon, she presented herself at Kilmoran, but at an unfortunate moment: Mrs. Doran was in a bad temper; the cook and two other servants had given notice. Also she was momentarily expecting Lady Borrisokane, and various notables to tea. She sat enthroned in an arm-chair, pretending to read, clad in her best black satin. (Her toilettes now were rich satin, or silk for best, her everyday garment a black serge, with velveteen sleeves, which had long seen its best years.)
Suddenly the man-servant flung open the door, and announced “Mrs. Aron,” and a tall, self-possessed, elderly woman stalked in.
Mrs. Doran sat still and stared; she never uttered a word, and looked really formidable, for she had been composing the character she was about to give her cook.
“I am speaking to Mrs. Doran, I believe,” began the stranger.
Mrs. Doran nodded shortly; her expression was distinctly grim.
“I am a great friend of Mrs. Grogan—Miss Doran that was; she lives near me in Philadelphia, and as I was coming home to these parts she asked me to step in and see you, and bring her your news.”
“Oh, indeed,” drily. “I presume she sent a letter to introduce you?”