“Yes, sir.  When I get a day to lay off in, you couldn’t move me outer the house with a derrick,” she announced.  “Miss Lang’s here, too.  Bein’ so dim, an’ comin’ in outer the sunlight, perhaps you don’t make out to see her.”

“She ain’t had time yet to pull herself together,” Mrs. Slawson inwardly noted.  “But, Lord!  I couldn’t stand in front of her forever, an’ even if a girl is dead in love with a man (more power to her!), that’s no reason she should go to the other extreme to hide it, an’ pertend she’s a cold storage, warranted to freeze’m stiff, like the artificial ice they’re makin’ these days, in the good old summertime.”

The first cold greetings over, Claire started to retreat in the direction of the door.

“Excuse me, please—­I promised Francie—­She’s expecting me—­she’s waiting—­”

“Pshaw now, let her wait!” said Martha.

“Don’t let me detain Miss Lang if she wishes to go,” interposed Mr. Ronald.  “My business is really with you, Martha.”

“Thank you, sir.  But I’d like Miss Lang to stay by, all the same—­that is, if you don’t objeck.”

“As a witness?  You think I need watching, eh?”

“I think it does a body good to watch you, sir!”

“I didn’t know before, you were a flatterer, Martha.  But I see you’re a lineal descendant of the Blarney Stone.”

Claire felt herself utterly ignored.  She tried again to slip away, but Martha’s strong hand detained her, bore her down into the place she had just vacated.

“How is Francie?” inquired Mr. Ronald, taking the chair Mrs. Slawson placed for him.

“Fine—­thank you, sir.  The doctors says they never see a child get well so fast.  She’s grown so fat an’ big, there ain’t a thing belongs to her will fit her any longer, they’re all shorter, an’ she has to go whacks with Cora on her clo’es.”

“Perhaps she’d enjoy a little run out into the country this afternoon in my car.  The other children, too?  And—­possibly—­Miss Lang.”

“I’m sure they’d all thank you kindly, sir,” began Martha, when—­“I’m sorry,” said Claire coldly, “I can’t go.”

Mr. Ronald did not urge her.  “It is early.  We have plenty of time to discuss the ride later,” he observed quietly.  “Meanwhile, what I have in mind, Martha, is this:  Mr. Slawson has been at the Sanatorium now for—?”

“Goin’ on five months,” said Martha.

“And the doctors think him improved?”

“Well, on the whole, yes, sir.  His one lung (sounds kinder Chineesy, don’t it?), his one lung ain’t no worse—­it’s better some—­only he keeps losin’ flesh an’ that puzzles’m.”

“Do you think he is contented there?”

“He says he is.  He says it’s the grand place, an’ they’re all as good to’m as if he was the king o’ Harlem. You seen to that, sir—­he says.  An’ Sam, he’s always pationate, no matter what comes, but—­”

“Well—­but?”