III
Aunt Fanny and Aunt Lucy came over to San Rafael to spend the day. They had taken the nine-forty-five ferry to Sausalito and the ten-thirty train hence. There had been a change in the schedule the previous week, the boat formerly leaving at nine-forty now left at nine-forty-five, and the train, whose time had been ten-fifteen, now departed at ten-thirty. They had with difficulty adjusted themselves to these innovations.
All the female members of the Brewer family and their guests were assembled in the parlor. The Brewer girls ranged in age from twenty-four to twenty-eight years.
Aunt Fanny was an old maid with a flexible nose, which, when agitated, she used to beat. By the intervals between the blows and by their force, one could measure the depth of her agitation. She wore a blue foulard, trimmed with camel’s hair, flounced with calico and broadcloth and ornamented with passementrie and passepartout in contrasting colors.
Aunt Lucy was garbed in a crazy-quilt which she had made out of her former husband’s discarded neckties.
Mrs. Brewer and the girls wore the dresses described in the previous chapter.
“Have you heard of Amelia lately?” asked Mrs. Brewer.
“Who is Amelia?” asked Vicky, aged twenty-eight.
“Vicky, dearest, you shouldn’t ask Mamma such questions,” chided Mrs. Brewer. “Mamma doesn’t like it. Amelia is your third cousin once removed, the daughter of Aunt Caroline’s first husband, who was the son of his father, one of the Brewers of Milwaukee.”
“No,” replied Aunt Fanny, beating her nose gently. “But Rebecca’s mother, who was old Hannibal Crabtree’s niece by his marriage to Belinda Johnson, the sister of Cicero Tompkins, who was divorced from her uncle’s sister.”
“What about her?” said Esme.
“Nothing,” answered Fanny.
“How do you make that delicious fruit cake, May?” asked Lucy.
“Two cups of flour, four eggs, a spoonful of saleratus and two cups of horseradish. Break the eggs gently, add the gravy drop by drop, stir from left to right. Let it simmer on the back of the stove for two days and fry in a colander over a slow fire,” said May.
“Lou,” interjected Tina. “Did you know our cat has kittens?”
“Teeny-weeny!” cried her mother. “Don’t you know that such things should never be alluded to in Mamma’s presence? Mamma is deeply grieved. Perhaps a few days in your room on bread and water will be needed.”
“Yes, Mamma,” said Tina meekly.
“How about Pa Crabtree?” asked Mrs. Brewer of Fanny. “Any prospects of his dying soon?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Fanny, beating her nose staccato. “He does hang on so.”
“Girls,” said Mrs. Brewer, “go out on the porch for a few minutes.” Obediently they trooped out.
“Is—Alice?”
“Yes,” said Lucy, “December.”
“And—Nellie?”
“November.”
“And—Dessie?”
“October.”
“Lola is—January,” said Mrs. Brewer. “Mrs. Yelland, February and Mrs. Torrey, March. The cat, yesterday. I hope my daughters will never be so unladylike.”
Aunt Fanny beat her nose violently, expressing chagrin.
“Come in, girls,” called Mamma. “Tell Auntie Fanny how you make that delightful new salad.”
“Four cups of vinegar,” began Vicky, “a pound of macaroons, nine artichokes, two peppers and a turnip. Crumble the eggs in a warming pan, add the glycerine, chop the tomatoes into small pieces and serve in patty-pans garnished with ostrich feathers.”
“How lovely,” said Lucy.
“This whole thing,” whispered Lou to Tina, “sounds to me like two pages out of the Ladies’ Home Journal.”
Father’s footsteps were heard in the hall.
“Anybody married yet?” he asked. “Hello, Fanny. Is your Pa dead?” He read the answers in their faces, groaned audibly and left the room.