* * * * *
Mrs. Warrener gracefully, if unnecessarily, rose to the presentation, and found her hand in that of the gentleman of the long black overcoat, who bowed, meeting her eyes with a smile very like one of recognition and friendliness.
“Slocum is not small to me. I was born and brought up here. The place one comes from always seems the most important in the world. Of course it may strike me as small before I get through with it, but I have not found it so yet.”
Entirely unable to cope with the conversation, ordinary as it was, carried on by the quick, soft voices in enunciation so new to her that the language seemed scarcely English—Mrs. Warrener looked at the speaker with less embarrassment because he put her at her ease. Dark, brilliant and distinguished, he did not, nevertheless, awe her as did Mrs. Bellamy’s beauty and pose. McAllister took a chair and sat down directly in front of the guest.
“I have seen Mrs. Warrener already—at golf. You were there yesterday? Didn’t you give me my ball?”
“Yes, I just walked up for a little exercise. It’s nice playing there in the afternoon now, since the snow has gone.”
“I don’t play, myself,” McAllister said, “but, as you say, it’s a nice walk.”
Mrs. Bellamy, after a word or two, leaned back in her chair with relief, and left to her brother the amenities, watching him and the guest.
After Mrs. Warrener had gone—and McAllister had seen her to the door and returned with his indolent step—as he stopped to light a fresh cigarette, his sister said:
“Well, had you any recollection about a village beauty such as your boyhood and sarsaparilla memories? And did Mrs. Warrener recall it—and is the result the same?”