“Has she? I will go after dinner,” briefly answered Agatha She would not be got rid of in that way.
“Shall we sit and talk then, till my father comes in with that queer little man who has been with him all day? about whom Mary and I have been vainly puzzling our brains. Such an ugly little fellow, and, between you and me, not quite a gentleman. I wonder at papa's asking him to stay and dine. I shan't do the civil to him; you may.”
“Thanks for the permission.”
“Perhaps that is the very reason Papa sent for you,” continued Eulalie, stretching herself out on the sofa. “The person said he knew you, and asked Mary where you were living, and whether you were very happy together, you and your husband.”
Agatha rose abruptly, dashing down a heavy volume that lay on her knee—she certainly had not a mild temper. While she wavered between reining in her anger as she had last night vowed, and pouring upon Eulalie all the storm of her roused passions—the door opened, and Mr. Harper entered with his much-depreciated guest.
The old gentleman was dressed with unusual care, and walked with even more of slow stateliness than ordinary. He met Agatha with his customary kindness.
“Welcome. You have been somewhat of a stranger lately. It must not happen again, my dear.” And drawing her arm through his, he faced the “little ugly fellow” of Eulalie's dislike.
“Mr. Grimes, let me present you to my son's wife, Mrs. Locke Harper.”
“You forget, sir,” interrupted Grimes, importantly; “I have long ago had that honour, through Major”—
The old Squire started, put his hand to his forehead—“Yes, yes, I did forget. My memory, sir—my memory is as good as ever it was.”