They went down the stairs in silence, tall mother and tall daughter,
both sobered, both frightened at what might be in the other's mind,
and at what might be before them, and entered the low-ceilinged
living-room together. A pale woman, apparently as apprehensive as
they, rose in a haste that had almost some element of apology in it,
and offered her hand to Mrs. Marshall. "I'm Mrs. Fiske," she said
hurriedly, in a low voice, "Jerry's stepmother, you know. I hope you
won't mind my coming to see you. What a perfectly lovely home you
have! I was wishing I could just stay and _stay_ in this room."
She spoke rapidly with the slightly incoherent haste of shy people
overcoming their weakness, and glanced alternately, with faded blue
eyes, at Sylvia and at her mother. In the end she remained standing,
looking earnestly into Mrs. Marshall's face. That lady now made a step
forward and again put out her hand with an impulsive gesture at which
Sylvia wondered. She herself had felt no attraction towards the thin,
sickly woman who had so little grace or security of manner. It was
constantly surprising Sylvia to discover how often people high in
social rank seemed to possess no qualifications for their position.
She always felt that she could have filled their places with vastly
more aplomb.
"I'm very glad to see you," said Mrs. Marshall in a friendly tone. "Do
sit down again.
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