whom he could not help speaking, though the man seemed to share his hesitation if not his reluctance at the necessity. He was a tallish, thin man, with a dust-coloured face, and a dead, clerical air, which somehow suggested at once feebleness and tenacity. 

 Mrs. Lapham held out her hand to him. 

 "Why, Mr. Rogers!" she exclaimed; and then, turning toward her husband, seemed to refer the two men to each other. They shook hands, but Lapham did not speak.  "I didn't know you were in Boston," pursued Mrs. Lapham.  "Is Mrs. Rogers with you?" 

 "No," said Mr. Rogers, with a voice which had the flat, succinct sound of two pieces of wood clapped together.  "Mrs. Rogers is still in Chicago." 

 A little silence followed, and then Mrs Lapham said-- 

 "I presume you are quite settled out there." 

 "No; we have left Chicago. Mrs. Rogers has merely remained to finish up a little packing." 

 "Oh, indeed! Are you coming back to Boston?" 

 "I cannot say as yet. We sometimes think of so doing." 

 Lapham turned away and looked up at the building. His wife pulled a little at her glove, as if embarrassed, or even pained. She tried to make a diversion. 

 "We are building a house," she said, with a meaningless laugh. 

 "Oh, indeed," said Mr. Rogers, looking up at it. 

 Then no one spoke again, and she said helplessly-- 

 "If you come to Boston, I hope I shall see Mrs. Rogers." 

 "She will be happy to have you call," said Mr Rogers. 

 He touched his hat-brim, and made a bow forward rather than in Mrs. Lapham's direction. 

 She mounted the planking that led into the shelter of the bare brick walls, and her husband slowly followed. When she turned her face toward him her cheeks were burning, and tears that looked hot stood in her eyes. 

 "You left it all to me!" she cried.  "Why couldn't you speak a word?" 

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