“I think I’ll go and look up dear Aunt Julia,” said Lydia.
“Very well, my dear,” said the doctor over his shoulder. “She’s in her room, I think.” In exactly the same mild tone, he added, “Damnation!”
“What did you say?” asked Lydia.
He turned toward her, and took up a book from the table. “I said nothing, dear Lydia—I’ve nothing to say, I find.”
Lydia broke into a light, mocking laugh—the doctor’s volubility was an old joke—and began to speak, when a woman’s voice called, “Oh, Marius, here’s Mr.—— why, Lydia, how did you get in without my seeing you?”
She entered the room as she spoke—a middle-aged woman, with large blue eyes and graying fair hair, who evidently did her duty by the prevailing styles in dress with a comfortable moderation of effort. Lydia’s mother, as the sister of Mrs. Sandworth’s long-dead husband, thought it necessary, from time to time, to endeavor to stir her sister-in-law up to a keener sense of what was due the world in the matter of personal appearance; but Mrs. Sandworth, born a Melton, had the irritating unconcern for social problems of that distinguished Kentucky family. She cared only to please her brother Marius, she said, and he never cared what she had on, but only what was in her mind—a remark that had once caused Judge Emery to say, in a fit of exasperation with her wandering wits, that if she ever had as little on as she had in her mind, he guessed Melton would sit up and take notice.
Lydia now rushed at her aunt, exclaiming, “Oh, Aunt Julia, how good you do look to me! The office door was open and I slipped in that way, without ringing the bell.”
“It’s four years old, and never been touched, not even the sleeves,” said the other deprecatingly.
Her brother laughed. “Who did you say was here—Oh, it’s you, Rankin; come in, come in.”
The newcomer was half-way across the room before he saw Lydia. He stopped, with a look of extreme pleasure and surprise, which Lydia answered with a frank smile.