Having ventured so much, after a slight pause, Miss Bird went on. "And she is like cider, the older she grows, the sourer she grows."
"Oh! then, I will go," Mrs. Rowan said at once. "I didn't know she was so old."
She did not hurry, however. She arrayed herself deliberately from head to foot, and came down to find Miss Bird pacing the entry in a fever of impatience.
"Dear me! do come!" exclaimed that frightened creature, and unceremoniously pulled Mrs. Rowan into the carriage. "Drive for your life!" she called out then to the coachman.
"Is anything the matter with Miss Clinton?" inquired Mrs. Rowan anxiously.
"Oh! bless us!" sighed the companion. "Something is always the matter with Miss Clinton when she has to wait."
They reached the house—a large, old-fashioned one in a most respectable locality—entered, and went up-stairs to a sunny parlor with windows looking into a garden. The four walls of this room were entirely covered with pictures, the central places being occupied by four portraits of a lady, the same lady, painted in different costumes, and at different ages. It was a handsome face, not without signs of talent. The original of these portraits sat in an arm-chair near one of the windows. The silvery curls of a wig clustered about her wrinkled face, a scarlet India shawl was wrapped around her tall, upright form, and her small hands glittered with rings. On a table at her elbow were her hand-bell, eye-glasses, scent-bottle, snuff-box, and bonbonnière.
As the two entered the room, the old lady snatched her glasses, and put them up with a shaking hand. "So you have got here at last!" she cried out. "Have you been taking Mr. What's-his-name's housekeeper a drive on the Mill-dam, Bird?"
"I was obliged to wait for Mrs. Rowan," Bird said meekly. "She will tell you."
"I came as soon as I was ready, ma'am," interposed Mrs. Rowan. "I did not want to take the trouble to come at all. If you have no business with me, I will go home again."