Soon after four that afternoon, Davis's tumble-down cab might have been seen standing outside the gate of the Gray House. Immediately afterwards the door was opened, and Mrs. Meadowsweet, in her rose-colored satin, with a black lace shawl, and a bonnet to match made her appearance.  
She stepped into the cab, and was followed by Beatrice, Jane, the little maid, handing in after them a small band-box, which contained the cap trimmed with Honiton lace.
 
Mrs. Meadowsweet's cheeks were slightly flushed, and her good-humored eyes were shining with contentment and satisfaction.
 
"Oh, there's Mrs. Morris!" she said to Beatrice. "I'd better tell her where we are going. She's always so interested in the Manor folks. Davis, stop the cab a minute! Call to him, Bee. Da-vis!"
 
The cap stopped, and Mrs. Morris, eager and bustling, drew nigh.
 
"How are you, dear?" she said. "How do you do, Beatrice? Isn't it bad for you, dear love," turning again to the elder lady, "to have the window of the fly open? Although it is summer, and the doctor makes a fuss about the thermometer being over eighty in the shade, I know for a positive fact that the wind is east, and very treacherous."
 
"I don't take cold easily, Jessie," replied Mrs. Meadowsweet. "No, I prefer not to have the windows up, poor Bee would be over hot. We must think of the young things, mustn't we, Jessie? Well, you'll wonder why I am in my best toggery! Bee and I are off to the Manor, no less, I assure you. And to dinner, too! There's news for you."
 
"Well, I'm sure!" responded Mrs. Morris. Envy was in every tone of her voice, and on every line of her face. As usual, when excited, she found her voice, which came out quite thin and sharp. "Well, I'm sure," she repeated. "I wish you all luck, Lucy. Not that it's such a condescension, oh, by no means. The doctor said the bedrooms were very shabby in their furniture, and such a meal as those poor girls were eating for breakfast. He said his heart quite ached for them. Nothing but stale bread, and the name of butter, and tea like water bewitched. He said he'd rather never have a child than see her put down to such fare."
 
"Dear, dear, you don't say so," answered Mrs. Meadowsweet. "Bee, my love, we must have those nice girls constantly to the Gray House, and feed them up all we can. I'm very sorry to hear your news, Jessie. But I'm afraid we can't wait to talk any longer now. Nothing could have been more affable than Mrs. Bertram's letter, sent down by special messenger, and written in a most stylish hand."
 
"You haven't got it in your pocket, I suppose?" asked Mrs. Morris.
 
"To be sure I have. You'd like to see it; well, here it is. You can let me have it back to-morrow. Now, good-bye. Drive on, Davis."
 
The cab jumbled and rattled over the paving stones, and Mrs. Meadowsweet lay back against the cushions, and fanned her hot face.
 
"I wonder if it's true about those poor girls being so badly fed," she inquired of her daughter. "Dear, dear, and there's nothing young things want like generous living. Well, it's grievous. When I think of the quarts of milk I used to put into you, Bee, and the pounds and pounds of the best beef jelly—jelly that you could fling over the house, for thickness and solidity, and the fowls I had boiled down for you after the measles—who's that coming down the street, Bee? Look, my love, I'm a bit short-sighted. Oh, it's Miss Peters, of course. How are you, Miss Peters? Hot day, isn't it? Bee and I are off to the Manor—special invitation—letter—I lent it to Mrs. Morris. Oh, yes, to dinner. I have my best cap in this band-box. What do you say? You'll look in to-morrow—glad to see you. Drive on, Davis."
 
"Really, mother, if you stop to speak to every one we won't get to the Manor to-night," gently expostulated Beatrice.
 
"Well, well, my love, but we don't go to see the Bertrams every day, and when one feels more pleased and gratified than ordinary, it's nice to get the sympathy of one's neighbors. I do think the people at Northbury are very sympathetic, don't you, Bee?"
 
"Yes, mother, I think they are," responded the daughter.
 
"And she took care not to tell her parent of any little lurking doubts which might come to her now and then with regard to the sincerity of those kind neighbors, who so often partook of the hospitality of the Gray House."
 
When they reached the lodge, old Mrs. Tester came out to open the gates. She nodded and smiled to Beatrice who had often been very kind to her, and Mrs. Meadowsweet bent forward in the cab to ask very particularly about the old woman's rheumatism. It was at that moment that Beatrice caught sight of a face framed in with jasmine and Virginia creeper, which looked at her from out of an upper casement window in Mrs. Tester's little lodge. The face with its half-tamed expression, the eager scrutiny in the eyes, which were almost too bold in their brightness, startled Beatrice and gave her a sense of uneasiness. The face came like a flash to the window and then disappeared, and at that same moment Davis started the cab forward with a jerk. It was to the credit of both Davis and his sorry-looking steed that they should make a good show in the avenue. For this they had been reserving themselves, and they went along now in such a heedless and almost frantic style that Mrs. Meadowsweet had her bonnet knocked awry, and the band-box which contained the precious cap absolutely dashed to the floor of the cab.
 
Beatrice had therefore no time to make any remark with regard to Mrs. Tester's unwonted visitor.
 
"This is delightful," said Mrs. Meadowsweet, as she clasped her hostess's hand, in the long, cool, refined-looking drawing-room. "I'm very glad to come, and it's most kind of you to invite me. Dear, dear, what a cool room! Wonderful! How do you manage this kind of effect, Mrs. Bertram? Dearie me—very pretty—very pretty indeed."
 
Here Mrs. Meadowsweet sank down on one of the sofas, and gazed round her with the most genuine delight.
 
"Where's Bee?" she said. "She ought to look round this room and take hints from it. We spent a lot of money over our drawing-room, but it never looks like this. Where are you, Beatrice?"
 
"Never mind now," responded Mrs. Bertram, whose voice, in spite of herself, had to take an extra well-bred tone when she spoke to Mrs. Meadowsweet. Miss Beatrice has just gone out with my girls, and I thought you and I would have tea here, and afterwards sit under the shade of that oak-tree and watch the children at their game."
 
"Very nice, I'm sure," responded Mrs. Meadowsweet. She spread out her fat hands on her lap and untied her bonnet-strings. "It's hot," she said. "Do you find the dog-days try you very much, Mrs. Bertram?"
 
"I don't feel the heat particularly," said Mrs. Bertram. She was anxious to assume a friendly tone, but was painfully conscious that her voice was icy.
 
"Well, that's lucky for you," remarked the visitor. "I flush up a good deal. Beatrice never does. She takes after her father; he was wonderfully cool, poor man. Have you got a newspaper of any sort about, that you'd lend me, Mrs. Bertram?"
 
"Oh, certainly," answered Mrs. Bertram, in some astonishment. "Here is yesterday's Times."
 
"I'll make it into a fan, if you have no objection. Now, that's better. Dear, dear, what a nice room!"
 
Mrs. Bertram fidgetted on her chair. She wondered how many more times Mrs. Meadowsweet would descant on the elegancies of her drawing-room. She need not have feared. Whatever Mrs. Meadowsweet was she was honest; and at that very moment her eyes lighted on the felt which covered the floor. Mrs. Meadowsweet had never been trained in a school of art, but, as she said to herself, no one knew better what was what than she did; above all, no one knew better what was comme il faut in the matter of carpets. Meadowsweet, poor man, had been particular about his carpets. There were grades in carpets as in all other things, and felt, amongst these grades, ranked low, very low indeed. Kidderminster might be permitted in bedrooms, although Mrs. Meadowsweet would scorn to see it in any room in her house, but Brussels was surely the only correct carpet for people of medium means to cover their drawing-room floors with. The report that Mrs. Bertram's drawing-room wore a mantle of felt had reached Mrs. Meadowsweet's ears. She had emphatically declined to believe in any such calumny, and yet now her own eyes saw, her own good-humored, kind eyes, that wished to think well of all the world, rested on that peculiar greeny-brown felt, which surely must have come to its present nondescript hue by the aid of many suns. The............