On the day after Mrs. Whitney’s arrival for the summer, she descended in state from the hills to call upon the Rangers.

When the front bell rang Mrs. Ranger was in the kitchen—­and was dressed for the kitchen.  As the “girl” still had not been replaced she answered the door herself.  In a gingham wrapper, with her glasses thrust up into her gray hair, she was facing a footman in livery.

“Are Mrs. Ranger and Miss Ranger at home?” asked he, mistaking her for a servant and eying her dishevelment with an expression which was not lost on her.

She smiled with heartiest good nature.  “Yes, I’m here—­I’m Mrs. Ranger,” said she; and she looked beyond him to the victoria in which sat Mrs. Whitney.  “How d’ye do, Matilda?” she called.  “Come right in.  As usual when the canneries are running, I’m my own upstairs girl.  I reckon your young man here thinks I ought to discharge her and get one that’s tidier.”

“Your young man here” was stiffly touching the brim of his top hat and saying:  “Beg parding, ma’am.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” replied Mrs. Ranger; “I am what I look to be!”

Behind her now appeared Adelaide, her cheeks burning in mortification she was ashamed of feeling and still more ashamed of being unable to conceal.  “Go and put on something else, mother,” she urged in an undertone; “I’ll look after Mrs. Whitney till you come down.”

“Ain’t got time,” replied her mother, conscious of what was in her daughter’s mind and a little contemptuous and a little resentful of it.  “I guess Tilly Whitney will understand.  If she don’t, why, I guess we can bear up under it.”

Mrs. Whitney had left her carriage and was advancing up the steps.  She was a year older than Ellen Ranger; but so skillfully was she got together that, had she confessed to forty or even thirty-eight, one who didn’t know would have accepted her statement as too cautious by hardly more than a year or so.  The indisputably artificial detail in her elegant appearance was her hair; its tinting, which had to be made stronger year by year as the gray grew more resolute, was reaching the stage of hard, rough-looking red.  “Another year or two,” thought Adelaide, “and it’ll make her face older than she really is.  Even now she’s getting a tough look.”

Matilda kissed Mrs. Ranger and Adelaide affectedly on both cheeks.  “I’m so glad to find you in!” said she.  “And you, poor dear”—­this to Mrs. Ranger—­“are in agony over the servant question.”  She glanced behind her to make sure the carriage had driven away.  “I don’t know what we’re coming to.  I can’t keep a man longer than six months.  Servants don’t appreciate a good home and good wages.  As soon as a man makes acquaintances here he becomes independent and leaves.  If something isn’t done, the better class of people will have to move out of the country.”

“Or go back to doing their own work,” said Mrs. Ranger.

Mrs. Whitney smiled vaguely—­a smile which said, “I’m too polite to answer that remark as it deserves.”