“Citizens, doff your coats of black,
And dress to suit the almanack—­
Cuckoo—­”

The voices broke off, and a rat-tat sounded on the front door.

“Say that we never give to beggars, under any circumstances,” murmured Miss Susan, waking out of her lethargy.

The servant entered with a scrap of crumpled paper in her hand.  “There was a woman at the door who wished to see Miss Lefanu.”

“Say that we never give—­” Miss Susan began again, fumbling with the note.  “Bunce, I have on my gold-rimmed spectacles, and cannot read with them, as you know.  The black-rimmed pair must be up-stairs, on the—­”

“How d’ye do, my dears?” interrupted a brisk voice.  In the doorway stood a plump middle-aged woman, nodding her head rapidly.  She wore a faded alpaca gown, patched here and there, a shawl of shepherd’s plaid stained with the weather, and a nondescript bonnet.  Her face was red and roughened, as if she lived much out of doors.

“How d’ye do?” she repeated “I’m Joanna.”

Miss Bunce rose, and going discreetly to the window, pretended to gaze into the street.  Joanna, as she knew, was the name of the old ladies’ only step-sister, who had eloped from home twenty years before, and (it was whispered) had disgraced the family.  As for the Misses Lefanu, being unused to rise without help, they spread out their hands as if stretching octaves on the edge of the table, and feebly stared.

“Joanna,” began the elder, tremulously, “if you have come to ask charity—­”

“Bless your heart, no!  What put that into your head?” She advanced and took the chair which Miss Bunce had left, and resting her elbows on the table, regarded her sisters steadily.  “What a preposterous age you both must be, to be sure!  My husband’s waiting for me outside.”

“Your husband?” Miss Charlotte quavered.

“Why, of course.  Did you suppose, because I ran away to act, that I wasn’t an honest woman?” She stretched out her left hand; and there was a thin gold ring on her third finger.  “He isn’t much of an actor, poor dear.  In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, he has been hissed off two-and-thirty stages in Great Britain alone.  Indeed, he’s the very worst actor I ever saw, although I don’t tell him.  But as a husband he’s sublime.”

“Are there—­” Miss Charlotte began, and broke down.  “Are there,” she tried again, “are there—­any—­children?”

“Ah, my dear, if there were, I might be tempted to repent.”

“Don’t you?” jerked out Miss Bunce, turning abruptly from the window.  There was a certain sharp emotion in the question, but her face was in the shadow.  Joanna regarded her for a moment or two and broke into a laugh.

“My dears, I have been an actress and a mother.  I retain the pride of both,—­though my little one died at three months, and no manager will engage me now, because I refuse to act unless my husband has a part.  Theoretically, he is the first of artists; in practice—­ You were asking, however, if I repent.  Well, having touched the two chief prizes within a woman’s grasp, I hardly see how it is likely.  I perceive that the object of my visit has been misinterpreted.  To be frank, I came to gloat over you.”