Sam was staring at Mary with eyes which expressed a variety of emotions, intense surprise the most prominent.  He was in a state which Barbara Howe would have described as “fussed,” one most unusual for him.  He had known of Mary’s presence in the house; after the affair was settled John Keith told his family what he had done, facing with serene philosophy his wife’s displeasure and prophecies of certain regrets.  Sam had vivid and pleasing recollections of the pretty country girl in the South Harniss store.  He had not told his college friend that they were to meet her that day, one reason being that he was not certain they would meet, and the other a secret misgiving that it might be well to wait and inspect and listen before boasting of previous acquaintanceship.  Sam’s mother had lectured him on the subject before he left home.  “Don’t be too familiar, Sam,” was her warning.  “You may be sorry if you do.  The girl is well enough here in South Harniss, where she is accustomed to her surroundings, but in Boston she may be quite out of place and impossible.  I have told your father so, but he won’t listen, of course.  Don’t you be foolish, for my sake.”

But here was no green country girl.  The self-possessed young woman who stood before him looked no more out of place and impossible in Mrs. Wyeth’s dignified and aristocratic parlor than she had in the store where he had last seen her.  Her gown was simple and inexpensive but it was stylish and becoming.  And her manner—­well, her manner was distinctly more at ease than his at that moment.  Mary had been but eight weeks among the Misses Cabot’s young ladies, but she had used her eyes and her brain during that time; she was adaptable and had learned other things than those in the curriculum.  Also, she was prepared for this meeting and had made up her mind to show no embarrassment.

So the usually blase Samuel was the embarrassed party.  He looked and stammered.  Mrs. Wyeth was surprised and shocked.

“Samuel,” she said sharply, “what is the matter with you?  Why don’t you speak and not stand there staring?”

Sam, with an effort, recovered some of his self-possession.

“Was I staring?” he said.  “I beg your pardon, Cousin Emily.  Er—­How do you do, Miss Lathrop?”

Mrs. Wyeth sniffed.

“Mercy!” she exclaimed.  “Is your acquaintance as formal as that?  I thought you knew each other.  The boys and girls of this generation are beyond me.  ‘Miss Lathrop,’ indeed!”

Mary smiled.  “Perhaps he didn’t expect to see me here, Mrs. Wyeth,” she said.  “How do you do, Sam?”

She and Sam shook hands.  Mrs. Wyeth asked another question.

“Didn’t you know Mary was with me, Samuel?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, Cousin Emily, I knew.  I knew she was here, of course.  But—­but I didn’t—­by George!” with a sudden outburst of his real feelings, “I hardly knew her, though.  Really, I didn’t.”