Mrs. Field rose abruptly. “I guess I'd better be goin',” said she. “It must be your tea-time. I'll come in again to-morrow.”
The lawyer put up his hand deprecatingly. “Mrs. Maxwell, you will, of course, stay and take tea with us, and remain with us to-night.”
“I'm jest as much obliged to you for invitin' me, but I guess I'd better be goin'.”
“My sister is expecting you. You remember my sister, Mrs. Lowe. I've just sent word to her. You had better come right over to the house with me now, and to-morrow morning we can attend to business. You must be fatigued with your journey.”
“I'm real sorry if your sister's put herself out, but I guess I'd better not stay.”
The lawyer turned his ear interrogatively. “I beg your pardon, but I didn't quite understand. You think you can't stay?”
“I'm—much obliged to your sister an' you for invitin' me, but—I guess—I'd better—not.”
“Why—but—Mrs. Maxwell! Just be seated again for a moment, and let me speak to my sister; perhaps she—”
“I'm jest as much obliged to her, but I feel as if I'd better be goin'.” Mrs. Field stood before him, mildly unyielding. She seemed to waver toward his will, but all the time she abided toughly in her own self like a willow bough. “But, Mrs. Maxwell, what can you do?” said the lawyer, his manner full of perplexity, and impatience thinly veiled by courtesy. “The hotel here is not very desirable, and—”
“Can't I go right up to—the house?”