“Can’t,” came back in a thick mumble.  “Shaving.”

The front door-bell rang again, three big, determined rings.  “Rose!” hissed Floss, her tone venomous.  “I can’t go with my waist open.  For heaven’s sake!  Go to the door!”

“I can’t,” repeated Rose, in a kind of wail.  “I—­can’t.”  And went.  As she went she passed one futile, work-worn hand over her hair, plucked off her apron and tossed it into; a corner, first wiping her flushed face with it.

Henry Selz came up the shabby stairs springily as a man of forty should.  Rose stood at the door and waited for him.  He stood in the doorway a moment, uncertainly.

“How-do, Henry.”

His uncertainty became incredulity.  Then, “Why, how-do, Rose!  Didn’t know you—­for a minute.  Well, well!  It’s been a long time.  Let’s see—­ten—­fourteen—­about fifteen years, isn’t it?”

His tone was cheerfully conversational.  He really was interested, mathematically.  He was as sentimental in his reminiscence as if he had been calculating the lapse of time between the Chicago fire and the World’s Fair.

“Fifteen,” said Rose, “in May.  Won’t you come in?  Floss’ll be here in a minute.”

Henry Selz came in and sat down on the davenport couch and dabbed at his forehead.  The years had been very kind to him—­those same years that had treated Rose so ruthlessly.  He had the look of an outdoor man; a man who has met prosperity and walked with her, and followed her pleasant ways; a man who has learned late in life of golf and caviar and tailors, but who has adapted himself to these accessories of wealth with a minimum of friction.

“It certainly is warm, for this time of year.”  He leaned back and regarded Rose tolerantly.  “Well, and how’ve you been?  Did little sister tell you how flabbergasted I was when I saw her this morning?  I’m darned if it didn’t take fifteen years off my age, just like that!  I got kind of balled up for one minute and thought it was you.  She tell you?”

“Yes, she told me,” said Rose.

“I hear your ma’s still sick.  That certainly is tough.  And you’ve never married, eh?”

“Never married,” echoed Rose.

And so they made conversation, a little uncomfortably, until there came quick, light young steps down the hallway, and Floss appeared in the door, a radiant, glowing, girlish vision.  Youth was in her eyes, her cheeks, on her lips.  She radiated it.  She was miraculously well dressed, in her knowingly simple blue serge suit, and her tiny hat, and her neat shoes and gloves.

“Ah!  And how’s the little girl to-night?” said Henry Selz.

Floss dimpled, blushed, smiled, swayed.  “Did I keep you waiting a terribly long time?”

“No, not a bit.  Rose and I were chinning over old times, weren’t we, Rose?” A kindly, clumsy thought struck him.  “Say, look here, Rose.  We’re going to a show.  Why don’t you run and put on your hat and come along.  H’m?  Come on!”