"That goose Molly Wharton wouldn't have been able to buy 'em for
him!" The only pleasant thing in the meaningless room was
Nannie's drawing-board, which displayed the little girl's
painstaking and surprisingly exact copy in lead-pencil, of some
chromo--"Evangeline" perhaps, or some popular sentimentality of
the sixties. In the ten years which had elapsed since Mrs.
Maitland had plunged into her debauch of furnishing--her one
extravagance!--of course the parlors had softened; the enormous
roses of the carpets had faded, the glitter of varnish had
dimmed; but the change was not sufficient to blur in Mrs.
Maitland's eyes, all the costly and ugly glory of the room. She
cast a complacent glance about her as she motioned her nervous
and preoccupied guest to a chair. "How do you like Mercer?" she
said, beginning to knit rapidly.

"Oh, very well; it is a little--smoky," Mrs. Richie said,
glancing at the clock.

Mrs. Maitland grunted. "Mercer would be in a bad way without its
smoke. You ought to learn to like it, as I do! I like the smell
of it, I like the taste of it, I like the feel of it!"

"Really?" Mrs. Richie murmured; she was watching the clock.

"That smoke, let me tell you Mrs. Richie is the pillar of cloud,
to this country! (If you read your Bible, you'll know what that
means.) I think of it whenever I look at my stacks."

Mrs. Maitland's resentment at her guest's mild criticism was
obvious; but Mrs. Richie did not notice it. "I think I'll go down