This evening Tory assisted at the daily scattering of crumbs. This took place when possible at exactly the same hour.
Afterwards she and Memory Frean hid behind a shelter, where concealed they could watch the flight of the birds into the garden.
Some floated in from outside, others came down from their nests in Miss Frean’s own trees to partake of her hospitality.
This evening, appearing with the more regular visitors, was a golden-winged warbler, splendid with his conspicuous yellow wing bars. Close behind him came a pair of tanagers.
The female Tory did not recognize until Memory Frean explained that she was a dull green olive in color, unlike her brilliant, scarlet-coated husband.
In fact, Tory and Miss Frean did not go indoors until, from somewhere deep in the woods, a whippoorwill began his evening call.
In the meantime Tory had happily forgotten there was any subject to be discussed between herself and her friend that might not be an altogether happy one.
She did think of it, however, while she was eating her supper on a small table in Memory Frean’s living-room, drawn up before a small fire.
The night was not particularly cool, yet the fire was not uncomfortable, and had been lighted at Tory’s request.
The older woman had finished eating and sat holding an open magazine in her hands.