"There won't be a soul you know except old Blake. The Hazelwoods, the Carters, and the McRays from town are coming. You see how important it is! I'm giving the dinner for Thomas Hornby. He was a classmate of Henry's, and since he has made such a name for himself down there in South America—and such a fortune, too—everybody's crazy to meet him. He's a great drawing-card. Probably you've heard of him."
Lucretia nodded. "Yes," she replied—the papers had been full of Thomas Hornby—"I've heard of him." But she showed no interest. It had been a long while since Lucretia had shown interest in meeting new men, especially celebrities. She was always grubbily dressed, and her brothers and sisters never pushed her into prominence. Sitting silently in her corner, or more likely not appearing at all, she had long ago learned not to expect anything exciting in the way of new acquaintances.
When Lucretia's father died, she was twenty-four years old. She had been his only companion for five years then, living alone with him in the big, square, stucco-covered house in the quiet little town from which she had watched Bella, her elder sister, and each one of her brothers go forth into the world. It had been her
