Mabel, yawning, sank among the cushions of the settee. She was not interested in chess, but she could watch her lover’s profile from this position.
“Oh, I wish there were something young to do,” Corinne protested. “Cards aren’t young.”
“I don’t consider it safe for Mrs. Mearely to remain alone to-night,” Mrs. Witherby resumed. “A most villainous-appearing man with a multitude of black whiskers has been seen lurking about. Johnson, the butcher’s boy, told my maid, Hannah Ann, about it. He saw him!”
“I don’t think Mrs. Mearely is timid,” Andrews said.
“In my day, Mr. Andrews, it was not considered well-bred for women to make an exhibition of courage. They had it, but they suppressed it under a mask of timidity and sensitiveness. And the girls married easily at eighteen. And the widows were wives again before they had reached the lavender stage of their mourning. I shall try to insist on Mrs. Mearely’s keeping our Thomas to-night, and I do think it rash of her to don such a rich and conspicuous gown when she is entirely alone....”
“Oh, my trick again! Oh, goody!” Corinne broke in enthusiastically.
“Congratulations, fair partner.” Andrews thought he had done very well with that speech. So did Corinne.
“Oh, you say such lovely things, Mr. Andrews!”
“Losing as usual, aunt?” Mabel’s tone was delicately unpleasant. It angered her aunt.
“Not at all! I doubt if there is a woman in Roseborough who plays a better hand.”