It was a warm day for October, and the veranda of the hotel was crowded with loungers, homely men in jeans, slouched hats, and coarse brogans.  Some of them sat on the benches, supported by the square columns, at the end of the veranda; a few had tilted their chairs against the wall, and others stood in groups and talked county politics.

They all eyed Westerfelt curiously, and some of them nodded and said “Howdy do” as he passed.  He entered the parlor on the right of the long hall which ran through the centre of the main wing.  A slovenly negro girl was sweeping the hearth.  She leaned her broom against the cottage organ and went to call her mistress.

A sombre rag carpet was on the floor, and a rug made of brilliant red and blue scraps of silk lay in front of the fire.  On a centre-table, covered with a red flannel cloth, stood a china vase, filled with colored leaves and grasses, and lying near it was a plush photograph album.  The rest of the furniture consisted of an ancient hair-cloth sofa, an old rocking-chair, the arms of which had been tied on with twine, and a sewing-machine.  The windows had cheap lace curtains, stiff enough to stand alone, and green shades with tinselled decorations.  The plastered walls were whitewashed and the ceiling was faded sky-blue.

He heard a door close somewhere in the rear, and then with a light step Harriet Floyd entered.

“Good-morning,” she said, slightly embarrassed.  “Mother was busy, and so she asked me to come in.”

“I believe we were introduced, in a general way, last night,” he said.  “I hope you remember.”

“Oh yes, indeed,” she made answer.

He thought she was even prettier in the daylight in her simple calico dress and white apron than she had appeared the evening before, and he was conscious that the sharp realization of this fact was causing him to pause unnecessarily long before speaking in his turn.  But he simply could not help it; he experienced a subtle pleasure he could not explain in watching her warm, slightly flushed face.  Her eyes held a wonderful charm for him.  There seemed to be a strange union of forces between her long lashes and the pupils of her eyes, the like of which he believed he had never met before.

“I’ve come to see if I can get my meals here,” he said.  “It is near my place of business, and I’ve heard a lot of good things about your mother’s table.”

“We always have plenty of room,” she answered, simply.  “Mother will be glad to have you.  Won’t you take a seat?” She sat down on the sofa and he took a chair opposite her.

“I suppose you enjoyed the party last night,” he said, tentatively.

He fancied she raised her brows a little and glanced at him rather steadily, but she looked down when she replied.

“Yes; Mrs. Bradley always gives us a good time.”

“But you were not dancing.”

“No, I don’t care much for it, and Toot—­Mr. Wambush—­had sprained his foot and said he’d rather not dance.”