“No,” grinned Enoch, “but I can imagine her.”
“No, you can’t,” chuckled Joe, as Matilda passed through the room to open the door for the Fords, and hurried back a second later to reopen it for the Misses Moulton.
And what a tea it was! How pretty Sue looked, and how good were the hot little muffins Matilda had prepared as a surprise, which old Moses served with silent dignity in his best alpaca coat and white cotton gloves. And how “darling” Sue thought Matilda’s exquisite little cups, into which Miss Ann poured tea with the grace and gentleness of a lady.
The old room had never heard so much talk before, so much neighborly good-humor, broken at intervals by Ebner Ford’s somewhat raw and insistent attempts to engage the others in listening to the beginning of one of his many anecdotes—all of which Mrs. Ford had heard a thousand times, and which generally ended apropos of business, but which did not deter that effusive lady from referring as usual to her famous Southern family, of course apropos of the muffins, which she naïvely led up to.
“Now, when I was a girl,” she beamed, “I remember so well our delicious Southern hot breads—our table fairly groaned with them, Mr. Crane. We were five sisters, you know. Well, of course, our house was always full of company, father being so prominent in the place. I shall never forget how furious father was at an old beau of mine for taking me driving in the phaeton without his permission,” simpered the rotund little woman. “You see, we were young girls and, if I do say it, we had a great many young men at the house constantly, and, of course, when father became judge....”
“Yo heah all day hiferlutin’ talk,” whispered Matilda to Moses in the bedroom, transformed for the occasion into a serving-pantry. “I’se never heerd no real quality yit a talkin’ ’bout dere family. Dey don’t have to. Eve’ybody knows what dey is when dey looks at em.”
There were two young people in two chairs by the window in the fast-growing twilight, whom Enoch skilfully managed to leave by themselves.
“And you forgive me?” ventured Joe, looking up into her frank blue eyes.
“Why, I haven’t anything to forgive you for,” laughed Sue nervously. “Only it did seem a little queer—your—your inviting me so suddenly.”
“But you will forgive me, won’t you? You don’t know how much I’ve thought about it, and how much I cared. Then when we met on the stairs that day and you seemed so cold—half afraid of me. Tell me you’re not afraid of me now, are you?”