They did not know how she had put them on to conceal the burn in her wrist which she had gotten in her blind fury as she flew about the kitchen preparing supper, handling all the household utensils as if they were weapons to attack Providence.
Mrs.Maxwell poured the tea and portioned out the sugar with her black-gloved hands, and Mrs.Field stiffly buttered her biscuits.
Nobody dreamed of the wolves at the vitals of these two old women.
However, the eyes of the guests from the first had wandered to a cake in the centre of the table.

It was an oblong black cake; it was set on a plate surrounded thickly with sprigs of myrtle, and upon the top lay a little bouquet of white flowers and green leaves.

Mrs.Lowe and Mrs.Robbins, who sat side by side, looked at each other.

Mrs.Lowe's eyes said, "_Is_ that a wedding-cake ?" and Mrs.Robbin's said: "I dunno; it ain't frosted.

It looks jest like a loaf she's had on hand." But nothing could exceed the repose and dignity with which Mrs.
Maxwell, at the last stage of the meal, requested her nephew to pass the cake to her.