Peter would not be at home, of course.  But his aunt would tell him that that pretty, happy Miss Brown was here, and that she was going to leave Hunter, Baxter & Hunter’s for something not specified.  And then Peter, realizing that Susan had entirely risen above any foolish old memory—–­

Susan crossed the street and rang the bell.  When the butler told her, with an impassive face, that he would find out if Mrs. Baxter were in, Susan hoped, in a panic, that she was not.  The big, gloomy, handsome hall rather awed her.  She watched Burns’s retreating back fearfully, hoping that Mrs. Baxter really was out, or that Burns would be instructed to say so.

But he came back, expressionless, placid, noiseless of step, to say in a hushed, confidential tone that Mrs. Baxter would be down in a moment.  He lighted the reception room brilliantly for Susan, and retired decorously.  Susan sat nervously on the edge of a chair.  Suddenly her call seemed a very bold and intrusive thing to do, even an indelicate thing, everything considered.  Suppose Peter should come in; what could he think but that she was clinging to the association with which he had so clearly indicated that he was done?

What if she got up and went silently, swiftly out?  Burns was not in sight, the great hall was empty.  She had really nothing to say to Mrs. Baxter, and she could assume that she had misunderstood his message if the butler followed her—–­

Mrs. Baxter, a little figure in rustling silk, came quickly down the stairway.  Susan met her in the doorway of the reception room, with a smile.

“How do you do, how do you do?” Mrs. Baxter said nervously.  She did not sit down, but stood close to Susan, peering up at her shortsightedly, and crumpling the card she held in her hand.  “It’s about the office, isn’t it?” she said quickly.  “Yes, I see.  Mr. Baxter told me that it was to be closed.  I’m sorry, but I never interfere in those things,—­never.  I really don’t know anything about it!  I’m sorry.  But it would hardly be my place to interfere in business, when I don’t know anything about it, would it?  Mr. Baxter always prides himself on the fact that I don’t interfere.  So I don’t really see what I could do.”

A wave of some supreme emotion, not all anger, nor all contempt, nor all shame, but a composite of the three, rose in Susan’s heart.  She had not come to ask a favor of this more fortunate woman, but—­the thought flashed through her mind—­suppose she had?  She looked down at the little silk-dressed figure, the blinking eyes, the veiny little hand, and the small mouth, that, after sixty years, was composed of nothing but conservative and close-shut lines.  Pity won the day over her hurt girlish feeling and the pride that claimed vindication, and Susan smiled kindly.

“Oh, I didn’t come about Front Office, Mrs. Baxter!  I just happened to be in the neighborhood—–­” Two burning spots came into the older woman’s face, not of shame, but of anger that she had misunderstood, had placed herself for an instant at a disadvantage.