nterfering with my husband's business or making
suggestions. As fond as I am of you, Delia, you'll have to ask him
yourself."

Mrs. Toomey had the feeling that they never would be quite on the same
footing again. She knew it from the way in which Mrs. Pantin's eyes
travelled from the unbecoming brown veil on her head to her warm but
antiquated coat, stopping at her shabby shoes which, instinctively, she
drew beneath the hem of her skirt.

To be shabby from carelessness was one thing--to be so from necessity
was another, clearly was in Mrs. Pantin's mind. She had known, of
course, of the collapse of their cattle-raising enterprise, but she had
not dreamed they were in such a bad way as this. She hoped she was not
the sort of person who would let it make any difference in her warm
friendship for Delia Toomey; nevertheless, Mrs. Toomey detected the
subtle note of patronage in her voice when she said:

"Abram is alone in the living room--you might speak to him."

"I think I will." Mrs. Toomey endeavored to repair the mistake she felt
she had made by speaking in a tone which implied that a loan was of no
great moment after all, but she walked out with the feeling that she
used to have in the presence of the more opulent members of her father's
congregation when the flour barrel was low.

Mrs. Toomey was not too agitated to note how immaculate and dainty the
dining room table looked with its fine linen and cut glass. There were
six dices of apple with a nut on top on the handsome salad plates, and
the crystal dessert dishes each held three prunes swimming in their rich
juice.

The living-room, too, reflected Mrs. Pantin's taste. A framed motto
extolling the virtues of friendship hung over the mantel and the "Blind
Girl of Pompeii" groped her way down the staircase on the neutral-tinted
wall. A bookcase filled with sets of the world's best literature
occupied a corner of the room, while ooze leather copies of Henry Van
Dyke gave an unmistakable look of culture to the mission table in the
center of the room. A handsome leather davenport with a neat row of sofa
pillows along the back, which were of Mrs. Pantin's own handiwork,
suggested luxurious ease. But the chief attraction of the room was the
brick fireplace with its spotless tiled hearth. One of Mr. Pantin's
diversions was sitting before the glowing coals, whisk and shovel in
hand, waiting for an ash to drop.

Seeing Mrs. Toomey, Mr. Pantin again hastily thrust his