"You must excuse me! If your woman will give me a morsel to eat in the kitchen, or perhaps I had better go at once."
"Stop! Direxia, go and set another place for supper! Shut the door! Come here and sit down! No, not on that cheer. Take the ottoman with the bead puppy on it. There! I get crumpled up, sitting here alone. Some day I shall turn to wood. I like a new face and a new notion. I had a grandson who used to live with me, and I'm lonesome since he died. How do you like tramping, now?"
"Pretty well; it's all right in the summer, or when a man has his health."
"See things, hey, new folks, new faces, get ideas, is that it?"
"That begins it, but after a while,—I really think I must go. Madam, you are very kind but I prefer to go."
"Cat's foot!"
The shabby man laughed helplessly and just then Direxia stuck her head in at the door and snapped out, "Supper's ready!"
The shabby man seemed in a kind of dream—half unconsciously he put the old lady into her chair—then at a sign from her he took the seat opposite—he laid the damask napkin across his knees and winced at the touch of it as at the touch of a long-forgotten hand. Mrs. Tree talked on easily, asking questions about the roads he traveled and the people he met. He answered briefly. Suddenly close at hand a voice spoke.
"Old friends!"
The man started to his feet, white as the napkin he held.