Even though the matter were on the knees of the gods, Euphrasia would have taken it thence, if she could.  Nor did Austen know that she shared with him, that night, his waking hours.

The next morning Mr. Thomas Gaylord, the younger, was making his way towards the office of the Gaylord Lumber Company, conveniently situated on Willow Street, near the railroad.  Young Tom was in a particularly jovial frame of mind, despite the fact that he had arrived in Ripton, on the night express, as early as five o’clock in the morning.  He had been touring the State ostensibly on lumber business, but young Tom had a large and varied personal as well as commercial acquaintance, and he had the inestimable happiness of being regarded as an honest man, while his rough and genial qualities made him beloved.  For these reasons and others of a more material nature, suggestions from Mr. Thomas Gaylord were apt to be well received—­and Tom had been making suggestions.

Early as he was at his office—­the office-boy was sprinkling the floor —­young Tom had a visitor who was earlier still.  Pausing in the doorway, Mr. Gaylord beheld with astonishment a prim, elderly lady in a stiff, black dress sitting upright on the edge of a capacious oak chair which seemed itself rather discomfited by what it contained,—­for its hospitality had hitherto been extended to visitors of a very different sort.

“Well, upon my soul,” cried young Tom, “if it isn’t Euphrasia!”

“Yes, it’s me,” said Euphrasia; “I’ve been to market, and I had a notion to see you before I went home.”

Mr. Gaylord took the office-boy lightly by the collar of his coat and lifted him, sprinkling can and all, out of the doorway and closed the door.  Then he drew his revolving chair close to Euphrasia, and sat down.  They were old friends, and more than once in a youth far from model Tom had experienced certain physical reproof at her hands, for which he bore no ill-will.  There was anxiety on his face as he asked:—­“There hasn’t been any accident, has there, Euphrasia?”

“No,” she said.

“No new row?” inquired Tom.

“No,” said Euphrasia.  She was a direct person, as we know, but true descendants of the Puritans believe in the decency of preliminaries, and here was certainly an affair not to be plunged into.  Euphrasia was a spinster in the strictest sense of that formidable and highly descriptive term, and she intended ultimately to discuss with Tom a subject of which she was supposed by tradition to be wholly ignorant, the mere mention of which still brought warmth to her cheeks.  Such a delicate matter should surely be led up to delicately.  In the meanwhile Tom was mystified.

“Well, I’m mighty glad to see you, anyhow,” he said heartily.  “It was fond of you to call, Euphrasia.  I can’t offer you a cigar.”

“I should think not,” said Euphrasia.

Tom reddened.  He still retained for her some of his youthful awe.