"Look-a-here, Rhody," said he, a quizzical look on his shrewd, freckled countenance, "you've seen Gil Simmonses thorough-bred? Wall—that mare is nigh onto two year older'n our old Sal, but I swanny——"
Undoubtedly the red signal which flamed from Mrs. Squires's sallow cheeks warned her husband that he had said more than enough, for he came to a sudden pause, seized upon a pair of colossal cowhide shoes, upon which he had just bestowed an unusual degree of attention in the way of polish, and disappeared in the direction of the barn.
"He's jist as big a fool as ever!" she ejaculated. "The Lord knows I didn't want no city folks a-wearin' out my carpets, an' a drinkin' up my cream, an' a-turnin' up their noses at me! But no—ever sence he heared that Deacon Fogg made nigh onto a hundred dollars last year a-keepin' summer-boarders, his fingers has been a-itchin' an' his mouth a-waterin', an' nothin' for't but I must slave myself to death the whole summer for a pack o' stuck-up——"
She paused—for a soft rustle of garments and a faint perfume filled the kitchen, and turning, Mrs. Squires beheld the object of her vituperation standing before her.
She was certainly yellow-haired, and though not "every bit as old" as her hostess, a woman whose first youth was past; yet so far as delicately turned outlines, and pearly fairness of skin go, she might have been twenty. The eyes which met Mrs. Squires's own pale orbs were of an intense, yet soft, black, heavy-lidded and languid, and looked out from beneath their golden fringes with a calm, slow gaze, as if it were hardly worth their while to look at all. A smile, purely conventional, yet sweet with the graciousness of good breeding, parted the fine, soft lips.
Her mere presence made the room seem small and mean, and Mrs. Squires, into whose soured and jealous nature the aspect of beauty and grace ate like a sharp acid, smarted under a freshly awakened sense of her own physical insignificance.
She received her guest with a kind of defiant insolence, which could not, however, conceal her evident embarrassment, while Abby Ann retreated ignominiously behind the pantry door.
"I came to ask if Mr. Squires succeeded in finding some one to take us about," said the lady. "He thought he could."
Her voice was deep-toned and sweet, her manner conciliatory.
"I believe he did," replied Mrs. Squires, curtly. "Abby Ann, go tell your father Mis' Jerome wants him."