“You—a grouch? Oh, Uncle Martin!” Her merry, infectious laugh left no doubt of how ridiculous such a notion seemed.
“Oh, yes; I am.”
“Nonsense. You'll have to prove it to me.”
“Ask your aunt or Bill; they'll tell you.” The acrimony in his tone did not escape her.
“Then they'll have to prove it to me,” she corrected, her gaiety now a trifle forced. Aunt Rose never had appreciated him, was her quick thought. Even as a child she had sensed that.
“How are they?” she added quickly. “Bill must be a great boy by this time.”
“Only a few inches shorter than I am,” Martin answered indifferently. “He's one of the kind who get their growth early—by the time he's fifteen he'll be six feet.”
“I'm crazy to see them.”
“Well, there's your aunt now,” he resumed drily as they drew up before the little house that contrasted so conspicuously with the fine brick silos and imposing barns. Gleaming with windows, they loomed out of the twilight, reminding one, in their slate-colored paint, of magnificent battleships.
The bright glare of the auto picked Mrs. Wade out for them as mercilessly as a searchlight. Where she had been stout thirteen years before, she was now frankly fat. Four keen eyes noted the soft, cushiony double chin, the heavy breasts, ample stomach, spreading hips, and thick shoulders, rounded from many years of bending over her kitchen table. Kansas wind, Kansas well-water and Kansas sun had played their usual havoc, giving her skin the dull sand color so common in the Sunflower State. She had come from her cooking and she was hot, beads of sweat trickling from the deep folds of her neck. Withal, there was something so comfortable and motherly about her, the kind, wise eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were so misty with welcome and unspoken thoughts of the dear mother Rose had lost, that the girl went out to her sincerely even as she marvelled that the same years on the same farm which had given one person added polish and had made him even more good looking than ever, could have changed another so completely and turned her into such a toil-scarred, frumpy, oldish woman. Why, when she had been talking with Uncle Martin he had seemed no older than herself—well, not quite that, of course, but she had just forgotten about his age altogether—until she saw Aunt Rose. No wonder whenever he spoke of his wife every intonation told how little he loved her. How could he care any more—that way?