"Certainly, ma'am, Miss Ann is to home. She am receiving in the libr'y. Rest your umbril' on the table, ma'am, and take a char. I'll go and 'nounce you to Miss Ann."
Left alone, Marcia did not know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. The brave attempt at grand manner in the half-ruined house was pitiful as well as amusing.
"This way, ma'am. My mistress done say she'll receive you in the libr'y."
And there, in solemn state, sat the mistress of the Great House. She, too, had had time to prepare for the meeting, and she was sitting gauntly by the west window awaiting her guest.
"It was right kind of you to overlook my neglect," Miss Walden began, pointing to a low chair near her own, "but I never leave home and I am an old woman."
The soft drawl did not utterly hide the tone of reflection on the caller's audacity in presuming to enter a home where she was not wanted.
The window was almost covered by a honeysuckle vine and a tall yellow rose bush; the afternoon breeze came into the room heavy with the rare, spicy fragrance, and after a moment's resentment at the measured welcome, Marcia said cheerfully:
"You see—I had to come, Miss Walden. I've only waited until I could become less a shock to you. You believe I am Theodore Starr's niece, do you not? I know there are all sorts of silly ideas floating around concerning me, but I need not prove my identity to you, need I?"
The winning charm of the plain little visitor only served to brace Miss Walden to greater sternness.
"I have no doubt about you. You are very like your uncle, Theodore Starr."