Mr. Dean made a profound bow.
"And the name suits her, if one may judge by appearances," he said.
"And this is Amy Tracy, and my cousin, Jack Hildreth."
"And you?" suggested Mr. Dean. "I should like to call you something too."
"I am Margaret Gresham," said Margery, blushing.
"I think you would be much more comfortable if you would take this low chair that my grandmother embroidered, rather than perch on that abominable sofa again," said her host, handing Margery a small ebony chair with a carved back and a seat of faded satin embroidered with flowers dim with time.
"Thank you," said Margery, with profound inward gratitude. "It seems a pity to sit on it if your grandmother embroidered it."
"It has been used a great many times, and was made for another Margaret, who for many years has been out of the world where things grow old and fade," replied Mr. Dean. "My father had a sister who died when she was just sixteen. This chair, I have been told, grandmother embroidered for her on her fifteenth birthday."
"How lovely to have it still!" said Margery, rising to look at the flowers again. "I am not eleven yet—not till October."
"That is a great age," said Mr. Dean, smiling. "And now you really do not know how glad I am that you came to-day. I was feeling a trifle blue, and wondering if I should be lonely all my life, and just then the bell rang, and four good fairies appeared. By the way," he added, starting up boyishly, "suppose we go into the garden? Sheila can come there; I dare not let her in here for fear of my housekeeper. She is a little woman, and I am a big man, but I am afraid of her. You see she was my old nurse, and I got into the habit of minding her when I was small. I think that she makes pretty good cake, though I am not the judge of cake that I was when I was younger. If you will go into the garden I'll ask her to give us some, and get your opinion."