"Oh, is it you, Miss Sawyer?" said Mrs. Tweedie, all smiles, when the newcomer appeared in the doorway. "We are so glad that you could come. Of course, you know Mrs. Stout, and—"
Miss Sawyer bowed stiffly.
"Glad to see you," said Mrs. Stout, telling the lie that has been told oftener than any other.
Miss Elizabeth Sawyer was a lady of—her age does not matter. She was tall and very slight, her hair was gray, and her eyes were the bulging, staring kind that always seemed about to jump from their sockets, caused in some degree, perhaps, by the black-rimmed eye-glasses secured by a heavy cord which she constantly wore. She had the reputation of being very intellectual. The very person, Mrs. Tweedie thought, to shine in a woman's club.
When Miss Sawyer spied Mrs. Flint she rushed into her arms. She considered Mrs. Flint as near her equal mentally as it was possible for any woman in Manville to be. They sat down together, and cooed for several minutes in the most impolite manner possible, so Mrs. Tweedie thought, probably because she could not hear a word that they said. Mrs. Stout moved uneasily, and Mrs. Tweedie coughed several times, but with no effect.
"Ain't it most time we was doin' somethin' about this club we came here to get up?" Mrs. Stout asked, impatiently, when she could contain herself no longer.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "when the others are ready; and I was waiting—I had hoped that my daughter Fanny, she is to be one of us, you know, would be here by this time. I can't imagine—" Mrs. Tweedie was interrupted by the entrance of her son Thomas, the bad angel of the Tweedie household.
"Ma," he blubbered, "Dora won't give me a piece of cake. Can't I have some, ma?" This exhibition of domestic turmoil made Mrs. Tweedie very angry, and it was with difficulty that she controlled herself.
"Thomas, leave the room immediately," she commanded, sternly.
"Am I goin' to have any cake?" the young man demanded when he saw that tears were of no avail.