I have said in the first stages of her welcome, for as soon as she entered the hall she heard a cheery voice. "Oh, so it’s you, Miss Follett! So glad you’ve come. It’s really too bad to bring you so far—only, it seemed to me we might be cozier here than if I went up to town." Adown the golden space which seemed to Jennie much too majestic for anyone’s private dwelling, a brisk figure moved, with hand outstretched. A few seconds later Jennie was looking into eyes such as she didn’t suppose existed in human faces. Beauty, dignity, poise, white hair dressed to perfection, and clothes such as Jennie had never seen off the stage—and rarely on it—were all subordinated to a hearty, kindly, womanly greeting before which they sank out of sight. Overpowered as she was by the material costliness of all she saw, the girl was well-nigh crushed by this unaffected affability. Like the Queen of Sheba at the court of Solomon, to be Scriptural again, there was no more spirit left in her. Mrs. Collingham went on talking as, side by side, they walked slowly up the strip of red carpet into the cool recesses of the house. "I hope you didn’t find the train too stuffy. It’s too bad they won’t give us a parlor car on the locals. For the last three or four years we only have a parlor car on what they call the 'husbands’ trains’—one in the morning and one in the afternoon, and, my dear, they make us pay for it as if—" A toss of the hands proved to Jennie that Mrs. Collingham knew the difference between cheap and dear, which again took her by surprise. They passed through the terrace drawing-room, which Jennie couldn’t notice because she trod on air, and came out to the flagged pavement. Even here, Mrs. Collingham didn’t pause, but, leading the way to the end of it, she went round a corner to the northern and more private side of the house, which looked into a little wood. "Mr. Collingham’s at home—just driven down—but I’m not going to have him here. Men are such a nuisance when women talk about intimate things, don’t you think? They make such mountains of molehills. It’s just as when you have a cry. They think your heart must be breaking, and never seem to understand that it gives you some relief." Jennie was still more astounded. That the mistress of Collingham Lodge, a great figure in Marillo Park, and therefore high up in the peerage of the United States, could have the same feelings as herself seemed the touch of nature that makes the whole world kin to a degree she had put beyond the limits of the human heart. They came to a construction like a giant birdcage—a room out of doors, yet sheltered from noisome insects like their own screened piazza, furnished with an outdoor-indoor luxury.