“Yes, I know. He is different,” sighed Maggie. “He’s talked with me quite a lot about—about the way they’re living. He doesn’t like—so much fuss and show and society.”
Mr. Smith frowned.
“But I thought—Mrs. Hattie would get over all that by this time, after the newness of the money was worn off.”
“I hoped she would. But—she doesn’t. It’s worse, if anything,” sighed Miss Maggie, as they ascended the steps at her own door.
Mr. Smith frowned again.
“And Miss Bessie—” he began disapprovingly, then stopped. “Now, Miss Mellicent—” he resumed, in a very different voice.
But Miss Maggie was not apparently listening. With a rather loud rattling of the doorknob she was pushing open the door.
“Why, how hot it is! Did I leave that damper open?” she cried, hurrying into the living-room.
And Mr. Smith, hurrying after, evidently forgot to finish his sentence.
Miss Maggie did not attend any more of the merrymakings of that holiday week. But Mr. Smith did. It seemed to Miss Maggie, indeed, that Mr. Smith was away nearly every minute of that long week—and it was a long week to Miss Maggie. Even the Martin girls were away many of the evenings. Miss Maggie told herself that that was why the house seemed so lonesome.