“All right, Aunt Mary,” with sugary sweetness and lamb-like submissiveness. “I thought we’d dine out together, but if you don’t want to, we needn’t. And if you feel like it when you waken, we can.”
“Dine out,” said Aunt Mary, blankly; “has the cook left? I never was a great approver of goin’ and eatin’ at boarding houses.”
“Well, never mind,” Jack said in a key pitched to rhyme with high C. “I’ll leave you now—and we can see about everything later.”
He kissed her, and retired from the room.
“Did he say we’re goin’ out to dinner?” Aunt Mary asked, when she was left alone with the maid, who hurried to take her bonnet and shawl, and get her into juxtaposition with the tea-tray as rapidly as possible.
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl screamed, nodding.
“I don’t want to,” said the old lady firmly. “Lots of trouble comes through gettin’ out of house habits. I’ve come here to take care of a sick boy and not to go gallivantin’ round myself. I’ve seen the evils of gallivantin’ a good deal lately and I don’t want to see no more. Not here and not nowhere.”
Then she began to eat and drink and reflect, all at the same time.
“By the way, what’s your name?” she asked, suddenly. “Jack didn’t tell me.”
“Janice, ma’am.”