The windows grew black while he paced the room, and smoky twilight
closed round about the house, yet not more darkly than what closed
round about the heart of the anxious little man patrolling the
fan-shaped zone of firelight. But as the mantel clock struck wheezily
six there was the rattle of an outer door, and a rich and beautiful
peal of laughter went ringing through the house. Thus cheerfully did
Mary Vertrees herald her return with her mother from their expedition
among the barbarians.

She came rushing into the library and threw herself into a deep chair
by the hearth, laughing so uncontrollably that tears were in her eyes.
Mrs. Vertrees followed decorously, no mirth about her; on the
contrary, she looked vaguely disturbed, as if she had eaten something
not quite certain to agree with her, and regretted it.

"Papa! Oh, oh!" And Miss Vertrees was fain to apply a handkerchief
upon her eyes. "I'm SO glad you made us go! I wouldn't have missed
it--"

Mrs. Vertrees shook her head. "I suppose I'm very dull," she said,
gently. "I didn't see anything amusing. They're most ordinary, and
the house is altogether in bad taste, but we anticipated that, and--"

"Papa!" Mary cried, breaking in. "They asked us to DINNER!"

"What!"

"And I'm GOING!" she shouted, and was seized with fresh paroxysms.
"Think of it! Never in their house before; never met any of them
but the daughter--and just BARELY met her--"