It was a matter for ejaculating surprise on arriving at the Lalors’ to find the unexpected Spicers instead of the Stones, who, however, appeared in a few minutes. Mr. Spicer had a slender, correct elegance of aspect, while Mr. Stone was large, grayish, and rather portly. Beside the Spicers, a Mrs. Frere and her son, a dumb, immature youth, were already in possession of the field. Mrs. Frere’s position as a church worker carried her into connection with people whom she might not otherwise have met; the chief effect that she produced on every one now was an ardent desire that she should go. She sat in utter silence with folded hands, but her dumbness differed from that of her son in a patently avid appreciation of everything that was said or done. Mrs. Lalor, in a low-throated, faded light green gown covered with beautiful old lace, was loud in expression of her surprise and delight at this haphazard gathering. Mr. Lalor, tall, handsome and with wandering dissipated eyes and the same droop alike to his reddish mustache and to his figure, came forward also with hospitable welcome, while his wife volubly ordered not only him but the other men in behalf of her guests: “Bennie, get that armchair out of the corner for Mrs. Laurence; be careful the top doesn’t fall off of it—we break all our things moving so often! Mr. Stone, won’t you put that footstool under Mrs. Spicer’s feet, I’m sure she’s not comfortable. Mr. Spicer, if you’ll kindly move the table near me to make more room—Bennie, run up-stairs and get the little feather hand-screen for Mrs. Stone—I know that lamp’s shining in your eyes.” She pronounced it “Shinin’ in yo’ eyes,” with a caressing, indolent inflection to her soft voice. “It’s not the least trouble for him, Mrs. Stone—Bennie always waits on me.” There was a seductive air of luxury about Mrs. Lalor in spite of the fact that the cheap, shabby upholstered chairs and sofa were profusely covered with cheaper “drapings” on such portions as were most subject to wear, and that the mantelpiece, also draped, was simply decorated with a single pink-mouthed grinning conch shell—yet the latter was indeed under an old, old painting of a low-browed woman whose white throat and rounded cheek gleamed out from rich brown shadows—a woman who, even thus dimly seen, seemed to match the lace on Mrs. Lalor’s gown. “I only came because I thought you’d like me to,” whispered Mrs. Spicer to Mrs. Laurence in a pause of the later conversation. Mrs. Stone gave an affectionate little squeeze to her neighbour’s hand. “I thought Ernest would object, but he seemed quite willing. I wish that Mrs. Frere wasn’t here, you have to be so careful what you say before her.”