The little lady tripped away, forcing her slim form through the
ever-increasing crowd. The rector was walking about with a very favorite
small parishioner seated on his shoulder.

"Mr. Ingram," piped Miss Peters. "Don't you think Mrs. Bertram might
favor us with her presence by now? We have all been looking for her.
It's past five o'clock, and--"

There was a hush, a pause. At that moment Mrs. Bertram was sailing into
the room. Miss Peters' exalted tones reached her ears. She shuddered,
turned pale, and also turned her back on the eager little spinster.

Nobody quite knew how it was managed, but Mrs. Bertram was introduced to
very few of the Northbury folk. They all wanted to know her; they talked
about her, and came in her way, and stared at her whenever they could.
There was an expectant hush when she and the Rector were seen
approaching any special group.

"I do declare it's the Grays she's going to patronize," one jealous
matron said.

But the Grays were passed over just as sedulously as the Joneses and the
Smiths. Excitement, again and again on the tenter-hooks, invariably came
to nothing. Even Mrs. Gorman Stanley, who had sat on Mrs. Bertram's
sofa, and condemned her felt carpet was only acknowledged by the most
passing and stately recognition. Little chance had the poor lady of
effecting other introductions; she realized for the first time that she
was only a quarter introduced to the great woman herself.

The fact was this: There was not a soul in Northbury, at least there was