“Wha’d you say, Aunt Fanny?”
“Nothing. I suppose your mother’s been being pretty gay? Going a lot?”
“How could she?” George asked cheerfully. “In mourning, of course all she could do was just sit around and look on. That’s all Lucy could do either, for the matter of that.”
“I suppose so,” his aunt assented. “How did Lucy get home?”
George regarded her with astonishment. “Why, on the train with the rest of us, of course.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Fanny explained. “I meant from the station. Did you drive out to their house with her before you came here?”
“No. She drove home with her father, of course.”
“Oh, I see. So Eugene came to the station to meet you.”
“To meet us?” George echoed, renewing his attack upon the salmon salad. “How could he?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Fanny said drearily, in the desolate voice that had become her habit. “I haven’t seen him while your mother’s been away.”