“Come and sit down, Charles, and don’t be disagreeable. I shall have to go to Aunt Sophia soon, but then you will be able to talk to Aunt Rose. That will do just as well.”
“Not quite,” he said. “I really came to tell you—”
“You said you came because you thought I wanted you.”
“So I did, but there were several reasons. You said you were going to be happy to-day, not murderous, do you remember? And I thought I’d like to see how you looked. You don’t look happy a bit. What’s the matter?”
“I’ve told you Aunt Sophia’s ill. And would you be happy if you had to sit in this prim room with two old women?”
“Two? But your Aunt Caroline is dead.”
“But my Aunt Rose is very much alive.”
He wagged his head. “I see.”
“But she isn’t lively. She sits like this—reading a book, and Aunt Sophia, poor Aunt Sophia, sews like this, and I sit on this horrid little stool, like this. That’s how we spend the evening.”
“How would you like to spend it?”