Farley took a seat at a small table beside the miniature fountain. In the little stream that ran through the grass goldfish were nervously darting. “Wasn’t the invitation sent to the office?” He drew out some sheets of paper and proceeded to make notes. He had the air of not taking the discussion seriously. More important affairs were on his mind.
“No matter. It was addressed to me personally.” Miss Wing turned for corroboration to Emily Moore, who had sunk into the seat near her.
“So was mine,” Miss Moore echoed.
Farley smiled, without glancing up from his writing. “How about yours, Mrs. McShane?”
Mrs. McShane, who always looked frightened, seemed at this moment painfully conscious of the shabbiness of her black silk gown. But she managed to reply: “I found mine in my letter-box this afternoon.”
“It had been sent to the paper, of course,” Farley remarked, decisively, as if expecting no answer.
Mrs. McShane nodded. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I do the temperance column in the Saturday paper, and the news of the churches.”
The young women exchanged glances.
“Oh, well,” Farley remarked, cheerfully, “these ladies will help you out. I’m relying on them for the dresses myself.”
Miss Wing and Miss Moore rose and walked to the farthest corner of the conservatory. By some physical expression they seemed to wish to indicate that a marked difference existed between themselves and the shabby, careworn little figure in black.