Aunt Martha chuckled.
“My land, child,” she said. “Don’t call me half-aunt. Makes me feel like I was cut in two.”
CHAPTER XI
ON THE ROAD TO LONGMEADOW
Along the country road, through pastures and farms and meadows, where the limousine had smoothly, swiftly glided, Aunt Martha’s Ford bounced sturdily. Soon the ice-cream cones were demolished, even to the last gritty crumb of the cornucopias. Jacqueline wiped her hands and her face on her handkerchief (Caroline’s handkerchief!).
“Wipe off your mouth, Nellie,” bade Aunt Martha. “Let Caroline do it for you. I haven’t a hand to spare.”
Jacqueline scrubbed Nellie vigorously with Nellie’s own pocket handkerchief which had a rabbit worked in one corner.
“That’s my best hanky,” said Nellie, and with the ice thus broken between them, began to ask Jacqueline questions.
Did she sleep in the train? Did she have a real bed? Was she scared all alone like that?
“Of course not,” said Jacqueline, rather showily.
She stuffed her mussy handkerchief back into her pocket, and there were the chocolates, salvage of the satin box. She decided to share them with this new acquaintance.