Genevieve's color faded. The slim hand that held the rose trembled a very
little. Her first caller! She decided that it would be best not to talk
about George. Not one word about George! Her feelings were her secret--and
his.

Marie ushered in two ladies. One, who rushed forward with outstretched
hand, was a curiously vital-appearing creature in black--plainly a
widow--hardly more than thirty-two or thirty-three, fresh of skin, rather
prominent as to eyeballs, yet, everything considered, a handsome woman.
This was Alys Brewster-Smith. The other, shorter, slighter, several years
older, a faded, smiling, tremulously hopeful spinster, was Genevieve's own
cousin, Emelene Brand.

"It's so nice of you to come--" Genevieve began timidly, only to be swept
aside by the superior aggressiveness and the stronger voice of Mrs.
Brewster-Smith.

"My _dear_! Isn't it perfectly delightful to see you actually mistress of
this wonderful old home. And"--her slightly prominent eyes swiftly took in
furniture, pictures, rugs, flowers,--"how wonderfully you have managed to
give the old place your own tone!" "Nothing has been changed," murmured
Genevieve, a thought bewildered.

"Nothing, my dear, but yourself! I am _so_ looking forward to a good talk
with you. Emelene and I were speaking of that only this noon. And I can't
tell you how sorry I am that our first call has to be on a miserable
political matter. Tell me, dear, is that wonderful husband of yours at
home?"

"Why--yes. But I am not to disturb him."