Then, too, the Harrods had money. Colonel Harrod had never permitted his family’s social standing to interfere with his money-making. On the contrary. The Barons were unable to say of the Harrods: “Oh, yes, they have _money_,” as they said of a good many other families. For the Harrods had everything else, too. “Oh, it’s Amelia!” exclaimed Mrs. Baron, withdrawing her eyes from the street. She gave herself a quick, critical survey, and put her hands to her hair, and hurried toward her room in a state of delighted agitation. She had not given a thought to Bonnie May. She did not know that the child slipped eagerly from the room and hurried down the stairs. Bonnie May was, indeed, greatly in need of a diversion of some sort. Not a word had been said to her touching the clash that had occurred at the table during the Sunday dinner. She did not know that the machinery necessary to her removal from the mansion had been set in motion; but she had a vague sense of a sort of rising inflection in the atmosphere, as if necessary adjustments were in the making. Perhaps her state of mind was a good deal like that of a sailor who voyages in waters which are known to be mined. However, she liked to go to the door to admit visitors, in any case. There may have been, latent in her nature, a strong housekeeping instinct. Or, perhaps, there seemed a certain form of drama in opening the door to persons unknown--in meeting, in this manner, persons who were for the time being her “opposites.” She assured herself that she was saving Mrs. Shepard from the trouble of responding from the kitchen; though she realized clearly enough that she was actuated partly by a love of excitement, of encounters with various types of human beings. On the present occasion she had opened the door and stepped aside, smiling, before Mrs. Harrod had had time to touch the bell. “Come in,” she said. And when the visitor had entered she closed the door softly. “Will you wait until I make a light?” she asked. “I’m afraid we’ve all forgotten about the light.” The lower rooms had become quite gloomy. She had climbed upon a chair in the drawing-room, and touched a match to the gas-burner before she could be questioned or assisted, and for the moment the caller was only thinking how peculiar it was that the Barons went on relying upon gas, when electricity was so much more convenient. “Please have a seat,” Bonnie May added, “while I call Mrs. Baron.” She turned toward the hall. “Shall I say who it is?” she asked. Mrs. Harrod had not taken a seat. When the light filled the room child and woman confronted each other, the child deferential, the woman smiling with an odd sort of tenderness. “Who _are_ you?” asked the visitor. Her eyes were beaming; the curve of her lips was like a declaration of love. “I’m Bonnie May.” The child advanced and held out her hand. Mrs. Harrod pondered. “You’re not a--relative?” “Oh, no. A--guest, I think. Nothing more than that.”