He restrained his impulse to call at Sixty-ninth Street until what seemed to him a fitting interval had elapsed; one which was longer than it would otherwise have been, from an instinct of shyness not habitual to him, and a distrustful apprehension that perhaps his advent was not of so much moment to the people there as to him.  But their greeting was so cordial on every hand that Mrs. Carling’s remark that they had been almost afraid he had forgotten them embarrassed while it pleased him, and his explanations were somewhat lame.  Miss Blake, as usual, came to the rescue, though John’s disconcert was not lessened by the suspicion that she saw through his inventions.  He had conceived a great opinion of that young person’s penetration.

His talk for a while was mostly with Mr. Carling, who was in a pleasant mood, being, like most nervous people, at his best in the evening.  Mary made an occasional contributory remark, and Mrs. Carling, as was her wont, was silent except when appealed to.  Finally, Mr. Carling rose and, putting out his hand, said:  “I think I will excuse myself, if you will permit me.  I have had to be down town to-day, and am rather tired.”  Mrs. Carling followed him, saying to John as she bade him good night:  “Do come, Mr. Lenox, whenever you feel like it.  We are very quiet people, and are almost always at home.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Carling,” responded John, with much sincerity.  “I shall be most glad to.  I am so quiet myself as to be practically noiseless.”

The hall of the Carlings’ house was their favorite sitting place in the evening.  It ran nearly the whole depth of the house, and had a wide fireplace at the end.  The further right hand portion was recessed by the stairway, which rose from about the middle of its length.

Miss Blake sat in a low chair, and John took its fellow at the other angle of the fireplace, which contained the smoldering remnant of a wood fire.  She had a bit of embroidery stretched over a circular frame like a drum-head.  Needlework was not a passion with her, but it was understood in the Carling household that in course of time a set of table doilies of elaborate devices in colored silks would be forthcoming.  It has been deplored by some philosopher that custom does not sanction such little occupations for masculine hands.  It would be interesting to speculate how many embarrassing or disastrous consequences might have been averted if at a critical point in a negotiation or controversy a needle had had to be threaded or a dropped stitch taken up before a reply was made, to say nothing of an excuse for averting features at times without confession of confusion.

The great and wise Charles Reade tells how his hero, who had an island, a treasure ship, and a few other trifles of the sort to dispose of, insisted upon Captain Fullalove’s throwing away the stick he was whittling, as giving the captain an unfair advantage.  The value of the embroidered doily as an article of table napery may be open to question, but its value, in an unfinished state, as an adjunct to discreet conversation, is beyond all dispute.