She had lived in it seventeen years. She knew every stain on the
wall-paper, every rent in the carpet; the light fell in a certain
way on her engravings, her books had grown shabby on their
shelves, her bulbs and ivy were used to their window and knew
which way to lean to the sun. "We are all too old to move," she
said.

That afternoon it cleared. Wet and radiant the blue reappeared
through torn rags of cloud; the ailanthus sparkled; the earth in
the flower-borders looked rich and warm. It was Thursday, and on
Monday the building of the extension was to begin.

On Sunday afternoon a card was brought to Mrs. Black, as she was
engaged in gathering up the fragments of the boarders' dinner in
the basement. The card, black-edged, bore Mrs. Manstey's name.

"One of Mrs. Sampson's boarders; wants to move, I suppose. Well,
I can give her a room next year in the extension. Dinah," said
Mrs. Black, "tell the lady I'll be upstairs in a minute."

Mrs. Black found Mrs. Manstey standing in the long parlor
garnished with statuettes and antimacassars; in that house she
could not sit down.

Stooping hurriedly to open the register, which let out a cloud of
dust, Mrs. Black advanced on her visitor.

"I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Manstey; take a seat, please," the
landlady remarked in her prosperous voice, the voice of a woman
who can afford to build extensions. There was no help for it;