“Mrs. Harrington,” said Lady Racial, very sweetly swimming to meet her as she entered the room, “I have intruded upon you, I fear, in venturing to call upon you at such a time?”
The widow bowed to her, and begged her to be seated.
Lady Racial was an exquisitely silken dame, in whose face a winning smile was cut, and she was still sufficiently youthful not to be accused of wearing a flower too artificial.
“It was so sudden! so sad!” she continued. “We esteemed him so much. I thought you might be in need of sympathy, and hoped I might—Dear Mrs. Harrington! can you bear to speak of it?”
“I can tell you anything you wish to hear, my lady,” the widow replied. Lady Racial had expected to meet a woman much more like what she conceived a tradesman’s wife would be: and the grave reception of her proffer of sympathy slightly confused her. She said:
“I should not have come, at least not so early, but Sir Jackson, my husband, thought, and indeed I imagined—You have a son, Mrs. Harrington? I think his name is—”
“Evan, my lady.”
“Evan. It was of him we have been speaking. I imagined that is, we thought, Sir Jackson might—you will be writing to him, and will let him know we will use our best efforts to assist him in obtaining some position worthy of his—superior to—something that will secure him from the harassing embarrassments of an uncongenial employment.”
The widow listened to this tender allusion to the shears without a smile of gratitude. She replied: “I hope my son will return in time to bury his father, and he will thank you himself, my lady.”
“He has no taste for—a—for anything in the shape of trade, has he, Mrs. Harrington?”