“How long have you been a widow?” Constance asked in a low voice, glancing at upright Sophia over her spectacles, a leaf of the album raised against her finger.

Sophia unmistakably flushed.  “I don’t know that I am a widow,” said she, with an air.  “My husband left me in 1870, and I’ve never seen nor heard of him since.”

“Oh, my dear!” cried Constance, alarmed and deafened as by a clap of awful thunder.  “I thought ye were a widow.  Mr. Peel-Swynnerton said he was told positively ye were a widow.  That’s why I never. ...”  She stopped.  Her face was troubled.

“Of course I always passed for a widow, over there,” said Sophia.

“Of course,” said Constance quickly.  “I see. ...”

“And I may be a widow,” said Sophia.

Constance made no remark.  This was a blow.  Bursley was such a particular place.  Doubtless, Gerald Scales had behaved like a scoundrel.  That was sure!

When, immediately afterwards, Amy opened the drawing-room door (having first knocked—­the practice of encouraging a servant to plunge without warning of any kind into a drawing-room had never been favoured in that house) she saw the sisters sitting rather near to each other at the walnut oval table, Mrs. Scales very upright, and staring into the fire, and Mrs. Povey ‘bunched up’ and staring at the photograph album; both seeming to Amy aged and apprehensive; Mrs. Povey’s hair was quite grey, though Mrs. Scales’ hair was nearly as black as Amy’s own.  Mrs. Scales started at the sound of the knock, and turned her head.

“Here’s Mr. and Mrs. Critchlow, m’m,” announced Amy.

The sisters glanced at one another, with lifted foreheads.  Then Mrs. Povey spoke to Amy as though visits at half-past eight at night were a customary phenomenon of the household.  Nevertheless, she trembled to think what outrageous thing Mr. Critchlow might say to Sophia after thirty years’ absence.  The occasion was great, and it might also be terrible.

“Ask them to come up,” she said calmly.

But Amy had the best of that encounter.  “I have done,” she replied, and instantly produced them out of the darkness of the corridor.  It was providential:  the sisters had made no remark that the Critchlows might not hear.

Then Maria Critchlow, simpering, had to greet Sophia.  Mrs. Critchlow was very agitated, from sheer nervousness.  She curvetted; she almost pranced; and she made noises with her mouth as though she saw some one eating a sour apple.  She wanted to show Sophia how greatly she had changed from the young, timid apprentice.  Certainly since her marriage she had changed.  As manager of other people’s business she had not felt the necessity of being effusive to customers, but as proprietress, anxiety to succeed had dragged her out of her capable and mechanical indifference.  It was a pity.  Her consistent dullness had had a sort of dignity; but genial, she was merely ridiculous.  Animation cruelly displayed her appalling commonness and physical shabbiness.  Sophia’s demeanour was not chilly; but it indicated that Sophia had no wish to be eyed over as a freak of nature.