Lucy gave the horizon a long look, but offered no comment.
Chapter XVI
“Aunt Fanny doesn’t look much better,” George said to his mother, a few minutes after their arrival, on the night they got home. He stood with a towel in her doorway, concluding some sketchy ablutions before going downstairs to a supper which Fanny was hastily preparing for them. Isabel had not telegraphed; Fanny was taken by surprise when they drove up in a station cab at eleven o’clock; and George instantly demanded “a little decent food.” (Some criticisms of his had publicly disturbed the composure of the dining-car steward four hours previously.) “I never saw anybody take things so hard as she seems to,” he observed, his voice muffled by the towel. “Doesn’t she get over it at all? I thought she’d feel better when we turned over the insurance to her—gave it to her absolutely, without any strings to it. She looks about a thousand years old!”
“She looks quite girlish, sometimes, though,” his mother said.
“Has she looked that way much since father—”
“Not so much,” Isabel said thoughtfully. “But she will, as times goes on.”
“Time’ll have to hurry, then, it seems to me,” George observed, returning to his own room.
When they went down to the dining room, he pronounced acceptable the salmon salad, cold beef, cheese, and cake which Fanny made ready for them without disturbing the servants. The journey had fatigued Isabel, she ate nothing, but sat to observe with tired pleasure the manifestations of her son’s appetite, meanwhile giving her sister-in-law a brief summary of the events of commencement. But presently she kissed them both good-night—taking care to kiss George lightly upon the side of his head, so as not to disturb his eating—and left aunt and nephew alone together.
“It never was becoming to her to look pale,” Fanny said absently, a few moments after Isabel’s departure.