Hemphill himself opened the black walnut front door with its silver plated knobs. As he did so a feminine voice called imperiously "Charles, Mary Ellen will answer the door!" "Alas for Charles," thought I, "the warning has come too late--the deed is done and I am within." Mary Ellen was visible on the horizon of the passage which ran straight through the centre line of the house. Upon seeing what had happened she fled to the rear with a report of the situation at the front. Hemphill, much embarrassed and evidently suffering some anxiety concerning the immediate future, helped me off with my coat. He hung it up upon a black walnut hatrack with which its designer had incorporated a slab of white marble. We entered a room upon the right with an extraordinarily high ceiling. The room was perfect early Victorian down to the last detail of crocheted anti-macassars on the backs of dull red plush chairs. To my great delight an engraving of _The Monarch of the Glen_ and of _Dignity and Impudence_ occupied the positions of honour upon the walls. There was also a scene in Venice, by Ruskin. Over all, however, was the shabbiness of respectable poverty which descends upon great possessions when they become relics of a vanished prosperity. I was so absorbed with my delight in the room--I decided on the spot to put it into a novel some day--that I overlooked for a moment the assembly gathered there. But I was soon aware of a tall, stern-lipped woman in an evening dress corresponding to the period of the room, bearing down upon me.
"Mother," said Hemphill (I was certain this was a tactless epithet), "this is Teddy."
She shook hands icily as she surveyed me. My evening clothes were London made; I felt quite calm about this ordeal. I noticed a perceptible thaw, although nothing excessive, when she greeted me after inspection. Behind her came a tall girl of about nineteen, who was already a pale replica of her mother--the same angularity, particularly about the neck and shoulders, but in her eyes her father's meekness in the presence of authority. It was not a house of divided counsels, I decided, after another glance at the mother.
"My daughter Edith," mama announced. Edith dropped her eyes and modestly resisted my efforts to shake hands with her. "My sister, Mrs. Martin," was the next in line--a stout elderly lady in alpaca and cameos, who walked with the aid of an ivory stick. She wasn't unlike the Queen, taking her in silhouette. I was much struck by the similarity in types all the way from Windsor to Deep Harbor. I murmured something, intended as a compliment, to Mrs. Martin about the resemblance.