A fire winked sleepily behind the polished steel bars of the grate,
the western window was full of potted begonias and ferns, the air
was close and pleasantly scented with the odour of a good cigar.

Judge Parker, a genial man looking more than his fifty-five years,
sat alone, smoking this cigar, and Martie, greeting him prettily,
was relieved to find that she must not at once face the ladies of
the house. Rather uncertainly she took off her hat, but did not
remove the becoming blue sweater. She sat erect in a low,
comfortable armchair whose inviting curves made her rigid attitude
unnatural and difficult, and talked to the Judge. The old man liked
all fresh young girls, and laughing with her, he vaguely wondered in
his hospitable heart why Monroe's girls were not more often at the
house.

Ida and May, tall, colourless young women, presently came down. They
noticed Martie's shoe-lacings and the frill of muddy petticoat, the
ungloved hands and the absurdity of her having removed her hat, and
told Rodney about these things later. At the time they only made her
uncomfortable in quiet little feminine ways; not hearing her when
she spoke, asking her questions whose answers must surely embarrass
her.

Tea came in. Martie smiled at Carrie David, who brought it. She
liked Carrie, who was the Hawkes' cousin, but did not quite think
she should speak to her here. Carrie, who was a big, gray-haired
woman of fifty, was in the room only a moment after all.

Judge Parker, amiably under the impression that young people were
happier alone, went away to walk down Main Street, glancing at the