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Chapter 3

AsFatherRalphparkedhiscarandwalkedacrossthelawn,themaidwaitedonthefrontveranda,herfreckledfacewreathedinsmiles.

"Goodmorning,Minnie,"hesaid.

"Oh,Father,happyitistoseeyouthisfinedearmornin’,"shesaidinherstrongbrogue,onehandholdingthedoorwideandtheotheroutstretchedtoreceivehisbattered,unclericalhat.

Insidethedimhall,withitsmarbletilesandgreatbrass-railedstaircase,hepauseduntilMinniegavehimanodbeforeenteringthedrawingroom.

MaryCarsonwassittinginherwingchairbyanopenwindowwhichextendedfifteenfeetfromfloortoceiling,apparentlyindifferenttothecoldairfloodingin.Hershockofredhairwasalmostasbrightasithadbeeninheryouth;thoughthecoarsefreckledskinhadpickedupadditionalsplotchesfromage,forawomanofsixty-fiveshehadfewwrinkles,ratherafinenetworkoftinydiamond-shapedcushionslikeaquiltedbed-spread.TheonlycluestoherintractablenaturelayinthetwodeepfissureswhichranoneoneithersideofherRomannose,toendpullingdownthecornersofhermouth,andinthestonylookofthepale-blueeyes.

FatherRalphcrossedtheAubussoncarpetsilentlyandkissedherhands;thegesturesatwellonamanastallandgracefulashewas,especiallysinceheworeaplainblacksoutanewhichgavehimsomethingofacourtlyair.Herexpressionlesseyessuddenlycoyandsparkling,MaryCarsonalmostsimpered.