It was certainly affinity that led Miss Lucretia to choose the rosewood sofa of a bygone age, which was covered with horsehair. Miss Lucretia's features seemed to be constructed on a larger and more generous principle than those of women are nowadays. Her face was longer. With her curls and her bonnet and her bombazine,—which she wore in all seasons,—she was in complete harmony with the sofa. She had thrown aside the storm cloak which had become so familiar to pedestrians in certain parts of Boston.
“My dear Miss Penniman,” said Mrs. Merrill, “I am delighted and honored. I scarcely hoped for such a pleasure. I have so long admired you and your work, and I have heard Cynthia speak of you so kindly.”
“It is very good of you to say so, Mrs. Merrill” answered Miss Lucretia, in her full, deep voice. It was by no means an unpleasant voice. She settled herself, though she sat quite upright, in the geometrical centre of the horsehair sofa, and cleared her throat. “To be quite honest with you, Mrs. Merrill,” she continued, “I came upon particular errand, though I believe it would not be a perversion of the truth if I were to add that I have had for a month past every intention of paying you a friendly call.”
Good Mrs. Merrill's breath was a little taken away by this extremely scrupulous speech. She also began to feel a misgiving about the cause of the visit, but she managed to say something polite in reply.
“I have come about Cynthia,” announced Miss Lucretia, without further preliminaries.
“About Cynthia?” faltered Mrs. Merrill.
Miss Lucretia opened a reticule at her waist and drew forth a newspaper clipping, which she unfolded and handed to Mrs. Merrill.
“Have you seen this?” she demanded.
Mrs. Merrill took it, although she guessed very well what it was, glanced at it with a shudder, and handed it back.
“Yes, I have read it,” she said.