Kate Marcy sat dumbly in her chair, her hands convulsively clasping its
arms, her breast heaving stormily, her face becoming intense with the
effort of repressing the wild emotion within her: emotion that threatened
to strangle her if resisted, or to sweep her out like a tide and drown
her in deep waters: emotion that had no one mewing, and yet summed up a
life, mysteriously and overwhelmingly aroused by the sight of a room, and
of a kindly old gentleman who lived in it!

Mr. Bentley took the chair beside her.

"Why, I believe it's going to clear off, after all," he exclaimed.
"Sam predicted it, before breakfast. He pretends to be able to tell by
the flowers. After a while I must show you my flowers, Miss Marcy, and
what Dalton Street can do by way of a garden--Mr. Hodder could hardly
believe it, even when he saw it." Thus he went on, the tips of his
fingers pressed together, his head bent forward in familiar attitude, his
face lighted, speaking naturally of trivial things that seemed to suggest
themselves; and careful, with exquisite tact that did not betray itself,
to address both. A passing automobile startled her with the blast of its
horn. "I'm afraid I shall never get accustomed to them," he lamented.
"At first I used to be thankful there were no trolley cars on this
street, but I believe the automobiles are worse."

A figure flitted through the hall and into the room, which Hodder
recognized as Miss Grower's. She reminded him of a flying shuttle across
the warp of Mr. Bentley's threads, weaving them together; swift, sure,
yet never hurried or flustered. One glance at the speechless woman
seemed to suffice her for a knowledge of the situation.