“Oh, that pitcher—­well, Maria, I—­I don’t know.  I’m afraid—­you see, that pitcher——­”

“Ah, go ’long,” interrupted Maria Macapa, “what’s the good of it?”

“If you insist, Maria, but I would much rather—­” he rubbed his chin, perplexed and annoyed, hating to refuse, and wishing that Maria were gone.

“Why, what’s the good of it?” persisted Maria.  He could give no sufficient answer.  “That’s all right,” she asserted, carrying the pitcher out.

“Ah—­Maria—­I say, you—­you might leave the door—­ah, don’t quite shut it—­it’s a bit close in here at times.”  Maria grinned, and swung the door wide.  Old Grannis was horribly embarrassed; positively, Maria was becoming unbearable.

“Got any junk?” cried Maria at Miss Baker’s door.  The little old lady was sitting close to the wall in her rocking-chair; her hands resting idly in her lap.

“Now, Maria,” she said plaintively, “you are always after junk; you know I never have anything laying ’round like that.”

It was true.  The retired dressmaker’s tiny room was a marvel of neatness, from the little red table, with its three Gorham spoons laid in exact parallels, to the decorous geraniums and mignonettes growing in the starch box at the window, underneath the fish globe with its one venerable gold fish.  That day Miss Baker had been doing a bit of washing; two pocket handkerchiefs, still moist, adhered to the window panes, drying in the sun.

“Oh, I guess you got something you don’t want,” Maria went on, peering into the corners of the room.  “Look-a-here what Mister Grannis gi’ me,” and she held out the yellow pitcher.  Instantly Miss Baker was in a quiver of confusion.  Every word spoken aloud could be perfectly heard in the next room.  What a stupid drab was this Maria!  Could anything be more trying than this position?

“Ain’t that right, Mister Grannis?” called Maria; “didn’t you gi’ me this pitcher?” Old Grannis affected not to hear; perspiration stood on his forehead; his timidity overcame him as if he were a ten-year-old schoolboy.  He half rose from his chair, his fingers dancing nervously upon his chin.

Maria opened Miss Baker’s closet unconcernedly.  “What’s the matter with these old shoes?” she exclaimed, turning about with a pair of half-worn silk gaiters in her hand.  They were by no means old enough to throw away, but Miss Baker was almost beside herself.  There was no telling what might happen next.  Her only thought was to be rid of Maria.

“Yes, yes, anything.  You can have them; but go, go.  There’s nothing else, not a thing.”

Maria went out into the hall, leaving Miss Baker’s door wide open, as if maliciously.  She had left the dirty pillow-case on the floor in the hall, and she stood outside, between the two open doors, stowing away the old pitcher and the half-worn silk shoes.  She made remarks at the top of her voice, calling now to Miss Baker, now to Old Grannis.  In a way she brought the two old people face to face.  Each time they were forced to answer her questions it was as if they were talking directly to each other.