“Tell me, Jenny—any news? Any news, Jenny?”
I didn’t know what to say to her. I was afraid of hurting her. She was so shaking and pitiful.
“Is it about Miss Grey, Auntie?”
“Carey, Jenny—Carey. Mrs. John Carey. Good name. Good man. But Anita don’t like him. Anita won’t tell me. You tell me, Jenny!”
“Auntie, it’s all right. It’s all right. She’ll tell you, of course, when she hears again.” And I soothed her as well as I could, till she let me loosen her hand from my wrist, and kiss her, and start her at her knitting again, so that I could finish making ready the room. But as I went to wash my hands she called to me once more.
“Yes, Auntie?”
“Put it on, Jenny. Don’t ask my daughter. Put it on.”
She was a queer old woman. She made me want to cry sometimes. She was so frightened always, and yet so game.
But I went upstairs after supper and put on the frock she liked. Black, of course, but with Mother’s lace fichu I liked myself in it too. I did my hair high. I don’t know why I took so much trouble except that I wanted to cheer myself up. It had been a depressing day in spite of Eden Walls. I looked forward to the stir of visitors. And then I was curious to see Kent Rehan.
When I came down the Baxter girl was already there, standing all by herself at the fire. She was strikingly dressed; but she looked stranded. I wondered if Anita had been snubbing her.