threw the knave by mistake, when Lois entered, followed by Sally with the
big tray, which always carried exactly the same things: a little fat
decanter, with a silver collar jingling about its neck, marked, Sherry,
'39; a plate of ratifia cakes, and another of plum-cake for the rector's
especial delectation; and a silver wire basket full of home-made candy
for Mr. Dale, who had two weaknesses, candy and novels. Of late Mrs. Dale
had ceased to inveigh against these tastes, feeling that it was hopeless
to look for reformation in a man nearly seventy years old. "It is bad
manners," she said, "to do foolish things if they make you conspicuous.
But then! it is easier to change a man's creed than his manners."

The candles stood in a gleaming row on the mantelpiece, where Lois had
placed them to make room for the tray on the whist-table; for it was
useless to think of putting anything on the rector's writing-table, with
its litter of church papers, and sporting journals, and numbers of Bell's
"Life," besides unanswered letters. The ladies, still sitting in the
high-backed chairs, spread white doilies over their laps, and then took
their small glasses of wine and delicate little cakes, but the gentlemen
ate and drank standing, and they all discussed the last game very
earnestly. Only Lois, waiting by the tray, ready to hand the cake, was
silent. It was a peculiarity of Ashurst that even after childhood had
passed young people were still expected to be seen, and not heard; so her
silence would only have been thought decorous, had any one noticed it.
By and by, when she saw she was not needed, she slipped out to the front
porch, and sat down on the steps. Max followed her, and thrust his cold
nose under her hand.

She propped her chin upon her little fist, and began to think of what had
been said of Ashurst's visitors. With a thrill of subtile satisfaction,
she remembered how pleased Mrs. Forsythe always was to see her. "She