The parlor had lace curtains and a Brussles carpet, and looked ornate
to Mrs. Field and Lois. The chairs were covered with green plush. The
two women sat timidly on the yielding cushions, and gazed during the
pauses at the large flower pattern on the carpet. All this fine
furniture was, in fact, Mrs. Lowe's; when she had given up her own
home, and come to live with her brother, she had brought it with her.

Both of the guests arose awkwardly, Mrs. Field first and Lois after
her, when Mrs. Lowe entered, and the lawyer introduced them.

"I'm happy to make your acquaintance," said Mrs. Field.

"I believe I've seen you two or three times when you was here years
ago," said Mrs. Lowe, standing before her straight and tall in her
faded calico gown, which fitted her uncompromisingly like a cuirass.
Mrs. Lowe's gowns, no matter how thin and faded, always fitted her in
that way. Stretched over her long flat-chested figure, they seemed to
acquire the consistency of armor. "You ain't changed any as I can
see," she went on, as she got scarcely any response to her first
remark. "I should have known you anywhere. It's a pleasant day, ain't
it?"

"Real pleasant," replied Mrs. Field. Mrs. Lowe sat down in one of the
plush chairs. To seat herself for a few minutes before announcing
dinner was, she supposed, a matter of etiquette. She held up her long
rasped chin with a curt air, and, in spite of herself, her voice also
was curt. She was too thorough a New England woman to play with any
success softening lights over the steel of her character. She
disdained to, and she was also unable to. She was not pleased to