She was little—very small indeed, yet not really a midget. She was quite gray. And her dress was as gray as her hair.
“Won’t you come in?” she invited. “I have been expecting you for an hour.”
“That’s strange!” Florence thought with a sudden start. “We didn’t tell her when we’d come—just said sometime today.”
“So you are June Travis!” said the little lady. They had been led into the coziest sitting-room it had ever been Florence’s privilege to see. The little lady looked June up and down, as much as to say, “How you have grown! And how beautiful you are!” She did not say it.
Instead, she pointed to a chair, then to another as she suggested, “If you will kindly sit there, and you there, I shall take this large chair, then we can talk. It is a little large,” she looked at the chair that did indeed appear to have been made for a person three times her size, “but with cushions it can be made very comfortable indeed.”
Florence wondered in a dreamy sort of way why so small a person, who apparently could have anything she wanted, should have chosen so large a chair. She was destined to recall this wondering a long time after, and to wonder still more.
That the little lady was very well off, Florence was bound to conclude. The curtains were of finest lace and the draperies of rich, heavy material. The rugs were oriental. The few objects of art—three vases, four oil paintings and a bronze statue in the corner—had cost a pretty penny; yet all this was so arranged that it appeared to harmonize perfectly with the two swinging cages where four yellow canaries swayed and sang, with the reddish-brown cat that dozed on the narrow hearth, and with the little lady in that big chair. It was strange.
“You have been wishing, my dear,” said the little lady, “to hear some news from your father—some good news, to be sure. I have it for you.”
“Yes, I—” June leaned forward eagerly.
“But wait!” said the little lady, “I have omitted something.” She touched a bell. A tiny maid in a white cap appeared.