“Tea not laid?” she said briefly.
“Rebecca has just brought in the lamp,” said I.
Lettie took off her coat and furs, and flung them on the couch. She went to the mirror, lifted her hair, all curled by the fog, and stared haughtily at herself. Then she swung round, looked at the bare table, and rang the bell.
It was so rare a thing for us to ring the bell from the dining-room, that Rebecca went first to the outer door. Then she came in the room saying:
“Did you ring?”
“I thought tea would have been ready,” said Lettie coldly. Rebecca looked at me, and at her, and replied:
“It is but half-past four. I can bring it in.”
Mother came down hearing the chink of the teacups.
“Well,” she said to Lettie, who was unlacing her boots, “and did you find it a pleasant walk?”
“Except for the mud,” was the reply.
“Ah, I guess you wished you had stayed at home. What a state for your boots!—and your skirts too, I know. Here, let me take them into the kitchen.”
“Let Rebecca take them,” said Lettie—but mother was out of the room.
When mother had poured out the tea, we sat silently at table. It was on the tip of our tongues to ask Lettie what ailed her, but we were experienced and we refrained. After a while she said:
“Do you know, I met Leslie Tempest.”
“Oh,” said mother tentatively, “Did he come along with you?”
“He did not look at me,”
