small cap of lace and pink ribbon, and her feet shod in black satin
sandals--a splendid woman of fifty-three years old, showing every grace
at its finest with as yet no sign of decay in any of them.

John gave her his arm proudly, but he noticed that her face clouded
before she was seated. She would not ask as to Harry's whereabouts, but
she missed his presence, and anger grew in her heart. "He is with that
girl," she thought, and she was sick with anxiety and inquietude. The
roast sirloin was done to the last perfect minute, and the Yorkshire
pudding deliciously brown and light; the table was set without a flaw or
a "forget," and the fire and light just as they should be. There was no
obvious outlet for her annoyance, and it took away her appetite and made
her silent.

John tried various interesting public topics--topics she had been eager
about; but every allusion to them at this hour was scornfully received.
Then he made a social effort. "I met Miss Phyllis Broadbent today,
mother," he said.

"Where did you meet her?"

"She was walking past the mill."

"Waiting for you--and I'll warrant it."

"I would not say that much, mother. She was out collecting for the new
cooking-school. She said she wanted to see you very much."

"And pray what for is she wanting to see me? I am not related to her. I
owe her nothing. I'm not going to give her anything and I don't want to