ears.  She had emphatically declined to believe in any such calumny, and yet now her own eyes saw, her own good-humored, kind eyes, that wished to think well of all the world, rested on that peculiar greeny-brown felt, which surely must have come to its present nondescript hue by the aid of many suns.  The whole room looked immediately almost sordid to the poor woman, and she felt no longer anxious for Beatrice to appreciate its beauties.

At that moment Clara appeared with the tea.  Now, if there was a thing Mrs. Meadowsweet was particular about it was her tea; she revelled in her tea; she always bought it from some very particular and exclusive house in London.  She saw that it was served strong and hot; she was particular to have it made with what she called the “first boil” of the water.  Water that had boiled for five minutes made, in Mrs. Meadowsweet’s opinion, contemptible tea.  Then she liked it well sweetened, and flavored with very rich cream.  Such a cup of tea, as she expressed it, set her up for the day.  The felt carpet had given Mrs. Meadowsweet a kind of shock, but all her natural spirits revived when she saw the tea equipage.  She approved of the exquisite eggshell china, and noted with satisfaction that the teapot was really silver.

“What a refreshment a cup of tea is!” exclaimed the good woman.  “Nothing like it, as I dare say you know, Mrs. Bertram.”

Mrs. Bertram smiled languidly, and raising the teapot, prepared to pour out a cup for her guest.  She was startled by a noise, which sounded something like a shout, coming from the fat lady’s lips.

“Did you speak?” she asked.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bertram, but don’t—­it’s cruel.”

“Don’t do what?”

“The tea isn’t drawn.  Let it rest a bit—­why, it’s the color of straw.”

“This peculiar tea is always of a light color,” replied Mrs. Bertram, her sallow face growing darkly red.  “I hope you will appreciate it; but perhaps it is a matter of training.  It is, however, I assure you, quite the vogue among my friends in London.”

Mrs. Meadowsweet felt crushed.  She received the cup of flavorless, half-cold liquid presented to her in a subdued spirit, sipped it with the air of a martyr, and devoutly wished herself back again in the Gray House.

Mrs. Bertram knew perfectly well that her guest thought the tea detestable and the cake stale.  It was as necessary for people of Mrs. Meadowsweet’s class to go in for strong tea and high living as it was for people of Mrs. Bertram’s class to aspire to faded felt in the matter of carpets, and water bewitched in the shape of tea.  Each after her kind, Mrs. Bertram murmured.  But as she had an object in view it was necessary for her to earn the good-will of the well-to-do widow.

Accordingly, when the slender meal came to an end, and the two ladies found themselves under the shelter of the friendly oak-tree, matters went more smoothly.  Mrs. Bertram put her guest into an excellent humor by bestowing some cordial praise upon Beatrice.