“But, but I was only going to the druggist’s,” explained Miss Ann. “My sister has been quite wretched and in bed since yesterday with a cold.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Sue. “I hope it isn’t serious.”
“Of course it’s nothing,” returned Miss Ann; “but you see, dear, she is not very strong, and I’m always a little anxious about her.”
“Now you must let me go,” pleaded Sue. “You’ll be drenched, Miss Moulton. I’m drenched already, so it doesn’t matter, I’m used to getting wet.”
In reply Miss Ann patted the girl’s shoulder affectionately. “I should not think of letting you go, my child. I’ll send Moses instead and, unless your dear mother is waiting for you, won’t you come in and see me? Mary will take care of your wet things. Then we can have some tea and a good chat before the wood fire.”
“Oh, how nice! Of course I’ll come. A wood fire!” Sue exclaimed, as Miss Ann opened the door of the cosey old-fashioned sitting-room. “It’s a long time since I’ve seen a real wood-fire—not since we lived in Clapham. Don’t you love them?”
“Yes, my child; all my life I have loved them. They are like old friends,” she added, as she led the young girl across her threshold, whereupon she sent Mary down for Moses, with instructions and a prescription, laid aside Sue’s wet things in the kitchen to dry, poked into a blaze the dying embers of the sitting-room fire, put on two fresh logs, ensconced Sue in a big armchair full of eider-down cushions, insisted on relieving her of her shoes and rubbers, tucked her trim stockinged feet upon a low settle before a glorious hickory blaze, and called to her sister Jane through the half-closed door of her bedroom, announcing their visitor—all as naturally as if Sue had been visiting them for years.
There was a restful, cosey atmosphere about the Misses Moulton’s apartment that appealed keenly to the young girl before the cheery fire. She could not help realizing the slovenly air and bad taste of their own belongings; that sordid collection of trash that had always accompanied them in their various movings. Some of these modern horrors had been acquired on the instalment plan, and stood out incongruously among their meagre store of family mahogany. Imitation oak and cherry made no difference to Ebner Ford as long as the drawers worked and there was room enough for his scanty wardrobe. As for her mother, despite her Southern training, she had no taste whatever. A Nile-green bow tied on a nickel-plated picture easel went far from shocking her sense of the artistic. Mrs. Ford had purchased two of them, in fact, one serving to uphold a crayon portrait of Ebner, showing the great promoter wearing his white tie, and laboring under an expression calculated to convey to the mind of the spectator absolute honesty and business acumen; and the other sustaining a gilt wicker basket, filled with dyed pampas grass, and further embellished with silvered sea-shells spelling “Welcome.”
And so Sue and the little spinster chatted on, while the fragrant tea brewed in the daintiest of white porcelain teapots, Miss Jane putting here and there a word in the conversation through the door ajar of her bedroom, an effort which ended in a fit of coughing, a gentle protest from her sister, silence, and a nap.