"You don't know me, Mrs. Sewall," I began.
"I fear I do not," she replied, smiling formally. She was dressed very plainly, but elegantly too. Her iron-grey hair looked as if it were cut out of marble not a wisp astray; and you simply felt, so perfect was everything about her, that the nail of her little finger was as nicely pointed, polished, and pinked as all the rest.
"But your card," she went on, "your name sounds familiar."
Of course it did—she probably had seen it signed after Will's articles in the magazines, I thought—but I replied simply, "You met me before I was Mrs. William Ford Maynard—in Hilton—several years ago. My name was Lucy Vars."
I was quite prepared for the expression of hostility that crossed Mrs. Sewall's face at this remark.
"Vars," she repeated a little vaguely. "Oh, yes, I remember. There was, I believe, a Ruth Vars. Are you related?" Then as if she had forgotten it up to this time, she suddenly asked, "Won't you sit down?"
I thanked her and did so, she herself sinking into a voluminous tufted armchair opposite.
"I am Ruth Vars' sister," I explained, "and it is about Ruth and your son that I have come to talk with you."
Mrs. Sewall raised her brows.
"Your sister? My son? Really? How extraordinary!"
"Why, yes. You must know," I went on, "that your son is seeing a great deal of Ruth lately."
Mrs. Sewall smiled in a very patronising manner
