The servant retired, reappeared, and announced that the barometer was
uncompromising.

"Well, see that the table is set for twenty, nevertheless; do you hear?
If they don't come I'll raise their rents. Send Miss Webster here."

His sister entered in a few moments. She was nearly his age, but her
faded face showed wrinkles only on the brow and about the eyes. It wore
a look of haunting youth; the expression of a woman who has grown old
unwillingly, and still hopes, against reason, that youth is not a matter
of a few years at the wrong end of life. Her hair was fashionably
arranged, but she was attired in a worn black silk, her only ornament a
hair brooch. Her hands were small and well kept, although the skin hung
loose upon them, spotted with the moth-patches of age. Her figure was
erect, but stout.

"What is it, brother?" she asked softly, addressing the back of the
autocrat's head.

He wheeled about sharply.

"Why do you always come in like a cat? Do you think those people will
come to-day? It's raining cats and dogs."

"Certainly; they always come, and they have their carriages--"

"That's just it. They're getting so damned high-toned that they'll soon
feel independent of me. But I'll turn them out, bag and baggage."