Mr. Howells thought it was going to storm, and turned to go away. At that moment Mrs. Walter arrived, the first comer of the Review Club. And Nora’s new hostess had to turn to her guests, while Ellen in the last cares for the afternoon table had to comfort Nora by spasms. It was left for Margaret the chambermaid to pump out—or to screw out, as you choose—the details of the story from the poor frightened waif, who seemed more astray than ever.
John McLaughlin? No. Nobody knew anything about him. The last choreman was named McManus, but he went to Ottawa three years ago!
And while the different facts and doubts were canvassed in the kitchen, upstairs they settled the Bulgarian question, the origin of the natives of Tasmania, and the last questions about realism.
Only the mind of the lady of the house returned again and again to questions as to the present residence of John McLaughlin.
For in spite of the gathering snow and the prospect of more, the members of the Review Club had followed fast on Mrs. Walters and gathered in full force.
The hostess, though somewhat preoccupied, was courteous and ready.
Only the functions of the club, as they went forward, would be occasionally interrupted. Thus she would read aloud “as in her private duty bound”—
“‘The peasantry were excited, but were held in check by promises from Stambuloff. The emissaries of the Czar—’
“Mrs. Goodspeed, would you mind reading on? Here is the place. I see my postman pass the window.”
And so, moving quickly to the front door, she interviewed the faithful Harrington, dressed, heaven knows why, in Confederate uniform of gray. For Harrington had served his four years on the loyal side. Four times a day did Harrington with his letter-bag renew the connection of this household with the world and other worlds.