The door opened and a tall lady looked in. A white veil was tied over her grey hair, and she wore black gloves. In one hand she carried a feather duster, and the helpless air with which she handled this domestic implement, caught Peggy’s attention at once. The sight of Elaine and Peggy, beaming at each other across the typewritten sheets, seemed to startle the new-comer. She made a movement as if to draw back, halted irresolutely, and murmured something unintelligible. Elaine came to the rescue, blushing vividly, quite as if, Peggy said to herself, she had been caught doing something out of the way. "Mamma, this is a neighbor of ours, Miss--I don’t know your name, do I?" She looked a little surprised at the discovery. "Peggy Raymond," said the owner of the name with promptness. "And this is my mother, Mrs. Marshall." The introduction completed, Elaine hastened to explain Peggy’s presence, and the other girl could not free herself of the feeling that she found it necessary to excuse as well as to explain. "Just think, mamma! One of the sheets of my--I mean one of these sheets flew out of the window, and she brought it back to me. Wasn’t I fortunate? And wasn’t she kind?" "We certainly are much indebted to Miss Raymond," Mrs. Marshall remarked with a stateliness which took Peggy’s breath away. "I regret that it is necessary," she continued impressively, "to apologize for my appearance. After being accustomed to the supervision of a house full of servants throughout married life it is extremely humiliating to me to be discovered engaged in the work of a parlor maid." Peggy could think of no suitable reply to this speech. She perceived that Mrs. Marshall was one of the people who, having "come down in the world," persist in flaunting in the face of their acquaintances recollections of their past grandeur. She said hastily that nobody ever called her Miss Raymond, and she wanted to be Peggy to her new neighbors as well as to the rest of the Terrace. Then she excused herself, on the ground that she must look after Dorothy, while Elaine followed her to the door to say again, "I’m so much obliged. I can’t tell you how much I thank you." Dorothy was sitting on the porch steps, a subdued little figure. Her hair, crinkling tightly after its recent washing, stood out in all directions, giving it the appearance of a tuft of thistle-down just ready to fly away. Peggy felt the fluffy golden crown thoughtfully. "Dry as the Desert of Sahara, isn’t it?" Dorothy compressed her lips and blinked. She strongly objected to being addressed in language beyond her comprehension, perhaps because she always suspected the people who used these terms of trying to make fun of her. "And as long as your hair is dry, and your dress is clean, I’ve an idea, Dorothy darling. How would you like to go to the Park and hunt up the girls? They’ll have had luncheon before we get there, but there’ll be a-plenty left. There always is."