Helen wore no invitations. She was simply anxious to look the mistress of this establishment, never to be mistaken for a dutiful servant. The horror she had felt of this impending fate since shortly after her marriage, when she knew that she was not to have children, and the long sentence she had actually served in this capacity rankled.
A bell rang somewhere in the house. She paid no attention, since she had no visitors and the front door bell never rang except when something was delivered.
A moment later there was a tap on her door and the maid entered. “Some one to see you, Mrs. Cutter,” she announced.
“Who is she?”
“A man.”
“Not Read?” referring to one of the workmen.
“No, Mrs. Cutter; this is a gentleman. I left him in the parlor.”
Helen frowned.
“He is somebody. I am sure of that. And he said that you knew him,” the woman explained.
“That I knew him? Then he—why, it must be Mr. Arnold,” Helen said. Arnold was the only man in Shannon who might have any reason for calling on her.