“Oh! Mrs. Mearely!” every one but Palametta (and, of course, her deaf mother) exclaimed at once. Rosamond’s bold speech had made them feel slightly absurd; they thought it best to laugh it off and make a joke of the whole affair.
“Anabeth is su-subject to hys-s-teria so that wh-hen she makes a je-jest she always c-cries,” Justinia elucidated tactfully.
“Yes,” Constanza amended, “we are not really all trying to catch a man we’ve never seen.”
“And may not like when we have seen him!” Claribel concluded.
“Come on, girls,” Imogen boomed. “Mrs. Mearely wants to get rid of us. Let’s go down to Dollop’s. I’ll stand treat for one ginger syrup all around.”
“Oh, goody!” “Oh, come on!” “Hooray!” “Imogen’s going to treat.” Her offer was greeted with the shouts of joy that generally follow on a treat, especially in communities like Roseborough. The seven Pelham-Hews, who never had pennies to spend in Dollop’s, rushed, giggling, down the steps and scrambled over one another into their rig for all the world like a pan of dough “raising.” The MacMillans followed as fast as was consistent with the dignity of the clan’s tartan. Palametta made a point of lingering to offer a limp handshake and, as her fingers slipped away and her head tossed and perked, she tittered faintly.
“If she te-he-hes like that at me again I’ll box her ears,” Rosamond vowed inwardly. An inspiration came to her, from the springs of her naturally impulsive generosity, which went far to restore her to her former position in the hearts of Roseborough’s spinsters.
“Wait, wait,” she called. “I’ll give you some bottles of Amanda’s parsnip wine. That will be better than Dollop’s syrup. And a basket full of glasses and some ginger cookies, and you can picnic down by the tower in that little nook of the slough.”
Not delaying for more than the first “hooray,” she caught up her flower basket from the porch and ran into the kitchen. To fill the basket with glasses, cookies, and the three quart bottles was the work of only a few minutes. She confided the precious cargo to the MacMillans and smilingly waved off her now friendly guests, who departed amid subdued and genteel cheering. Imogen even baritoned the first line of “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” (substituting “she” of course); but the Pelham-Hews, turning crimson in an agony of hurt refinement, begged her to desist.
The gate clicked behind the spinsterical cortège; and five o’clock rang from the tower.