“I called up Martha Conway this morning,” Aunt Eunice spoke, in one of the many pauses that fell between them. A little flush—was it shame or defiance?—was in her withered cheeks. “I wanted to know how the little girl was, after her long walk, and all the excitement.”
Penelope’s eyes traveled to the picture of Great-aunt Joanna. Her face flushed redder than Aunt Eunice’s.
“Bad blood will always tell in the long run,” she said bitterly. “To think of that child’s deceiving us all summer, and then leaving us like that—after all we had done for her—and without a word!”
“She left a letter for me, remember, Penelope.”
The red patches in Penelope’s cheeks were throbbing. Actually if she had been a child, you might have thought she was going to cry.
“I don’t want to see her letter,” she snapped.
“It’s on the desk in the library,” Aunt Eunice told her placidly.
If you’ll believe it, Aunt Eunice never went near the library all that afternoon. Whether or not Penelope went there, only Penelope herself knew, and she never told. Indeed there was little talk of any sort that night at dinner, and when Penelope spoke at last, this was what she said:
“I believe we’d better rehang these pictures. I’m really tired of looking at Great-aunt Joanna. I think she’s badly painted, rather. Especially the nose and the eyebrows.”
“Why not change your seat?” Aunt Eunice suggested gently.