“Why, Mr. Chase! Come in!”
He obeyed, drawing off his gloves. He was one of the four men in Hardiston who wore kid gloves. “Good evening, Agnes,” he said, in his tone of condescending graciousness. “Is your father at home?”
“Oh, yes—he’s in by the fire.”
Amos called from the sitting room: “Toasting my toes, Winthrop. Come in.”
“Let me take your coat,” Agnes was begging; and he allowed her to help him off with the garment, and then handed her his hat and gloves and watched her bestow them on the rack. She was graceful in everything she did, and she looked up at him in a humble little fashion, as though to solicit his approval. He gave it.
“Thank you, Agnes,” he said gravely.
“Now!” she said, and turned toward the sitting-room door. In the doorway she paused. “Dad, here’s Mr. Chase.”
“Come in, Chase,” Amos called again. “Take a chair. Any chair. Turning cold, ain’t it?”
Amos did not get up; but Chase went toward him and held out his hand so that the Congressman was forced to rise. He was in the act of filling his pipe again, knife in one hand, slices of tobacco in the other; and he had trouble clearing one hand for the greeting, but he managed. “Now sit down, Chase,” he urged again, when the handshake was over. “Glad you came in. Is it turning cold or ain’t it?”
“Yes,” said Chase seriously. “Yes, there’s a touch of cold in the air.”