“Oliver is dead,” she said.
“Dead!”
The rector’s lady fell into a chair, tossed her hat-strings over her shoulders, and fixed her light, prominent eyes upon her niece.
“Your weeds?” she gasped.
“I do not intend to wear any mourning but this black gown.”
“Ellinor!”
“Please, aunt, not another word upon the subject!”
For yet another outraged, scandalised moment, the spiritual autocrat of Bindon glared. But the very placidity of Ellinor’s determination was more baffling than any other attitude could have been to one who, after all ruled more by opportunity than capacity.
“‘All flesh is hay,’” she remarked at length, in plaintive tones. “We shall speak further of this anon. Now tell me what are your intentions for the future?”
Ellinor’s eyes and dimples betrayed mischievous amusement.