Marise was slightly surprised.  “Where is he going?” she asked.  “In the Ford?  On the train?” How little she had thought about the mill of late, that she should be so entirely blank as to this business trip.

“Oh, I didn’t even try to understand,” said Eugenia, smoothing the shining silk of her parasol.  “Business finds no echo in me, you know.  A man came to supper last night, unexpectedly, and they talked interminably about some deal, lumbering, lines, surveys, deeds . . . till Toucle came in with the news of the accident.  The man was from New Hampshire, with that droll, flat New Hampshire accent.  You know how they talk, ‘bahn’ and ‘yahd’ for barn and yard.”

The words “New Hampshire” and “deeds” stirred a disagreeable association of ideas in Marise’s mind.  The shyster lawyer who had done the Powers out of their inheritance had come from New Hampshire.  However, she supposed there were other people in the state besides dishonest lawyers.

Eugenia went on casually.  “It seemed quite important.  Neale was absorbed by it.  He told me afterward, Neale did, that the man had acted as agent for him some years ago in securing a big tract of wood-land around here, something that had been hard to get hold of.”

Marise was startled and showed it by a quick lift of her head.  She had never known Neale to employ an agent.  She looked hard at Eugenia’s quiet, indifferent face.  The other seemed not to notice her surprise, and returned her look with a long clear gaze, which apparently referred to her hair, for she now remarked in just the tone she had used for the news about Neale, “That way of arranging your coiffure is singularly becoming to you.  Mr. Marsh was speaking about it the other day, but I hadn’t specially noticed it.  He’s right.  It gives you that swathed close-coifed Leonardo da Vinci look.”  She put her handkerchief into a small bag of mauve linen, embroidered with white and pale-green crewels, and took up her parasol.

Marise felt something menacing in the air.  Eugenia frightened her a little with that glass-smooth look of hers.  The best thing to do was to let her go without another word.  And yet she heard her voice asking, urgently, peremptorily, “What was the name of the man from New Hampshire?”

Eugenia said, “What man from New Hampshire?” and then, under Marise’s silent gaze, corrected herself and changed her tone.  “Oh yes, let me see:  Neale introduced him, of course.  Why, some not uncommon name, and yet not like Smith or Jones.  It began with an L, I believe.”

Marise said to herself, “I will not say another word about this,” and aloud she said roughly, brusquely, “It wasn’t Lowder, of course.”

“Yes, yes,” said Eugenia, “you’re right.  It was Lowder.  I thought it was probably something you’d know about.  Neale always tells you everything.”

She looked away and remarked, “I suppose you will inherit the furniture of this house?  There are nice bits.  This Windsor chair; and I thought I saw a Chippendale buffet in the dining-room.”