THE VISITOR
“
Are you Miss Winifred Bartlett?” asked Mrs. Carshaw the next afternoon in that remote part of East Twenty-seventh Street which for the first time bore the rubber tires of her limousine.
“Yes, madam,” said Winifred, who stood rather pale before that large and elegant presence. It was in the front room of the two which Winifred occupied.
“But—where have I seen you before?” asked Mrs. Carshaw suddenly, making play with a pair of mounted eye-glasses.
“I cannot say, madam. Will you be seated?”
“What a pretty girl you are!” exclaimed the visitor, wholly unconscious of the calm insolence which “society” uses to its inferiors. “I’m certain I have seen you somewhere, for your face is perfectly familiar, but for the life of me I cannot recall the occasion.”
Mrs. Carshaw was not mistaken. Some dim cell of memory was stirred by the girl’s likeness to her mother. For once Senator Meiklejohn’s scheming had brought him to the edge of the precipice. But the dangerous moment passed. Rex’s mother was thinking of other and more immediate matters. Winifred stood silent, scared, with a foreboding of the meaning of this tremendous visit.
“Now, I am come to have a quiet chat with you,” said Mrs. Carshaw, “and I only hope that you will look on me as a friend, and be perfectly at your ease. I am sorry the nature of my visit is not of a quite pleasant nature, but no doubt we shall be able to understand each other, for you look good and sweet. Where have I seen you before? You are a sweetly pretty girl, do you know? I can’t altogether blame poor Rex, for men are not very rational creatures, are they? Come, now, and sit quite near beside me on this chair, and let me talk to you.”
Winifred came and sat, with tremulous lip, not saying a word.