"Open this door!" Nearing commanded, foot set harshly against the panel.
"Oh, Mother of God! Oh, sweet Virgin Mary!" Teresa murmured, turning her distracted eyes upon Alma.
"Open it," Alma said.
She drew the unfinished braid of hair over her shoulder, and stood while she completed what Teresa had begun. Teresa flung the door wide, as if discovering a triumph to mock them. Alma stood before the glass, winding the braid of hair crown-like around her head. She fastened it with tortoise-shell pins, deliberately, with steady hand, and turned to face them where they stood in the door.
"Go on; I'll come with Teresa," she said.
"With me," Nearing declared, determined to have done with delay.
He motioned Findlay ahead. Alma followed beside her uncle, slowly along the narrow hall.
Charley Thomson was walking back and forth before the library fireplace, hands under the tails of his long black coat, smoking a cigar. The long oaken table bearing the shaded lamp was between him and the door that opened into the broad front hall, through which the strange wedding party entered. Thomson drew up abruptly in his studious pacing to and fro, and stood a moment, hands still under his coat, frowning heavily upon them as if they might be culprits come for sentence before his grim and uncompromising bar.
Findlay arranged himself beside Alma, Nearing falling back to give place to him just within the door.
