She smiled when she saw me in the doorway, and said, with the little
anxious pucker between her eyes that was so childish, "Don't you
think peonies are better cut down at this time of year?" She took a
folded handkerchief from her bag and dabbed at her face, where there
was no sign of dust to mar its old freshness. "It gives the lilies
a better chance, my dear."

I led her into the house, and she produced a gay bit of knitting, a
baby afghan, by the signs. She smiled at me over it.

"I am always one baby behind," she explained and fell to work
rapidly. She had lovely hands, and I suspected them of being her one
vanity.

Maggie was serving tea with her usual grudging reluctance, and I
noticed then that when she was in the room Miss Emily said little
or nothing. I thought it probable that she did not approve of
conversing before servants, and would have let it go at that, had
I not, as I held out Miss Emily's cup, caught her looking at Maggie.
I had a swift impression of antagonism again, of alertness and
something more. When Maggie went out, Miss Emily turned to me.

"She is very capable, I fancy."

"Very. Entirely too capable."

"She looks sharp," said Miss Emily. It was a long time since I had
heard the word so used, but it was very apt. Maggie was indeed sharp.
But Miss Emily launched into a general dissertation on servants, and