The scene within was as gorgeous with golden stucco as the dining-room of a German liner. Aunt Mary was so overcome that she traversed half the room before she became aware of the mighty attention which she and her three escorts were attracting. In truth, it is not every day that three good-looking young men take a tiny old lady, a bunch of violets and an ear-trumpet out to dine at ten o’clock.
“Everyone’s lookin’,” she said to Jack.
“It’s your back, Aunt Mary,” he replied, in a voice that shook some loose golden flakes from the ceiling. “I tell you, not many women of your age have a back like yours, and don’t you forget it.”
The compliment pleased Aunt Mary, because she had all her life been considered round-shouldered. It also pleased her because she never had received many compliments. The Aunt Marys of this world love flattery just as dearly as the Mrs. Rosscotts; the sad part of life is that they rarely get any. The women like Mrs. Rosscott know why the Aunt Marys go unflattered, but the Aunt Marys never understand. It’s all sad—and true—and undeniable.
They went to a table, and were barely seated when another man came up.
“Hello, Jack!”
“Hello, Mitchell!”
It was he of Scotch ancestry. Jack sprang up and greeted him with warmth, then he turned to Aunt Mary.
“Aunt Mary,” he screamed, “this is my friend”—he paused, put on all steam and ploughed right through—“Herbert Kendrick Mitchell.”
“I didn’t catch that at all,” said Aunt Mary, calmly, “but I’m just as glad to meet the gentleman.”