Wykoff," said the lady, with
contracting brows.
"Could you have walked six or seven squares in the face of Monday's
driving storm, Mrs. Lowe, and escaped wet feet? Of course not. Your
stockings would have been wet half way to the knees, and your skirts
also."
There was a growing excitement about Mrs. Wykoff, united with an air
of so much seriousness, that Mrs. Lowe began to feel a pressure of
alarm. Selfish, cold-hearted and indifferent to all in a social
grade beneath her, this lady was not quite ready to stand up in the
world's face as one without common humanity. The way in which Mrs.
Wykoff was presenting the case of Miss Carson on that stormy
morning, did not reflect very creditably upon her; and the
thought--"How would this sound, if told of me?"--did not leave her
in the most comfortable frame of mind.
"I hope she's not sick. I'm sure the thought of her being wet never
crossed my mind. Why didn't she speak of it herself? She knew her
own condition, and that there was fire in the kitchen. I declare!
some people act in a manner perfectly incomprehensible." Mrs. Lowe
spoke now in a disturbed manner.
"Miss Carson should have looked to this herself, and she was wrong
in not doing so--very wrong," said Mrs. Wykoff. "But she is
shrinking and sensitive to a fault--afraid of giving trouble or
intruding herself. _It is our place, I think, when strangers come
into our houses, no matter under what circumstances, to assume that
they have a natural delicacy about asking for needed consideration,
and to see that all things due to them are tendered_.
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