The short afternoon wanes, twilight advances, then dusk; still Mrs. Armstrong's guests linger.
"I wish they'd go!" she thinks a little uneasily. "This is not a visit, but a visitation; and we look so—so familiar grouped round the fire in this easy way. I wish Pauline would sit on a chair, and not loll on the rug playing with the kitten; I wish that ridiculous boy would not sprawl at my feet in that affected high-art attitude—it looks too idiotic. What will Tom say when he comes in? Dear me, six o'clock, and not a move between them yet! Will they never go?"
When Tom comes in, he seems startled for a moment by the strange invasion of his hearth; but what he says is courteous and hospitable in the extreme. When the dressing-bell sounds, and the young men rise at last to their feet, full of confused apologies, he begs them to remain to dinner, which they do unhesitatingly.
It is midnight before they leave; Armstrong, who has been seeing them off, meets his sister-in-law going to bed. She stops him, and lays her hand coaxingly upon his arm.
"What a jolly little evening we've had, haven't we, Tom? Do you know, I think I enjoy a little family gathering like this quite as much as a big ball; and so does Addie. What spirits she was in this evening, wasn't she?"
"Yes," he says, in half soliloquy, "I think she enjoyed herself; society suits her."
"Of course it does; it suits all healthy-minded young people. It's the best tonic she could have. You must remember, Tom, she's very young—only two years older than me."
"Why do you say that to me?" he asks, fixing his somber eyes on her face. "Do you think my years weigh on her life? Do I—oppress her?"
"Oh, no, no! I only meant that, though she is married, she still can enjoy fun and—and society just as well as any of us; and, as for dancing, I know she delights in it."
"You think so?"—eagerly.