She was lying on the sofa with her back to the light, her long greyish curls straggling over her shoulder, and a handkerchief pressed to her brows.
"I am sorry to hear you have a bad headache after your journey, Aunt Charlotte," I said as I tiptoed across to her couch.
She gave a faint little moan of pain, and held out three fingers in a way I knew well. I just touched them. "I am very glad to see you," I murmured, as she withdrew them quickly.
"Don't make a noise, Paul," said Bessie, as she knelt down by the sofa. A most unnecessary caution, for I was not moving. "Men are so rough, are they not, aunt? Shall I bathe your head, dear? Get the scent, Paul. On the mantelpiece."
I tiptoed to the other end of the room, and Bessie called "Hush!" in a very aggressive whisper.
As I turned, bottle in hand, I noticed that they were both shaking with what looked uncommonly like suppressed laughter; and as I reached the sofa again, Bessie got up giggling. Then I understood and joined in the laughter, and "Aunt Charlotte" let me see her face.
"You ought to have known her hand, Paul," cried Bessie. "One would suppose you had never seen it before."
"All right. Grin away. You had me. Those curls took me in; they are Aunt Charlotte's to the life."
"They may well be. It's the wig she left here last time."
"Is your head too bad to let you stand up so that I can see your dress, 'aunt'?" I asked.