She sat regardless of time, now scarcely stirring, desperately
quiet. The door opened softly and Justine entered. "Madame," she said,
"pardon me; I am so sorry, but Miss Devlin has come to see you, and I
thought--"
"You thought, Justine, that I would see her." There was unmistakable
irony in her voice. "Very well. . . . Show her in."
She rose, stretched out her arms as if to free herself of a burden,
smoothed her hair, composed herself, and waited, the afternoon sun just
falling across her burnished shoes, giving her feet of gold. She chanced
to look down at them. A strange memory came to her: words that she had
heard Roscoe read in church. The thing was almost grotesque in its
association. "How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who
bringeth glad tidings, who publisheth peace!"
Ruth Devlin entered, saying, "I have come, to ask you if you will dine
with us next Monday evening?"
Then she explained the occasion of the dinner party, and said: "You see,
though it is formal, I am asking our guests informally;" and she added as
neutrally and as lightly as she could--"Mr. Roscoe and Dr.
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