The Hardinges pursued acquaintance with Aunt Clo with a certain amount of awe, although she was gracious to the three girls and to Dorothy's fiancé, as one who watches with benevolence the antics of a tribe of aborigines.
"How young! and ah! how English!" murmured Aunt Clo, with an air of having nothing whatever to do with the nationality in question.
Before Lily and Nicholas Aubray returned from their honeymoon, Aunt Clo had left England again.
"What would you?" she enquired of the interested Hardinges, who listened to her as to an astonishing oracle. "What would you? I cannot breathe in the atmosphere of my brother's house. It has always been so. Pour moi, il n'y a que la vérité! I must have the truth, fearless and outspoken, or I die!"
The Hardinges looked startled.
"What a household, his and poor Eleanor's! You"—Aunt Clo's finger flew out accusingly at Charlie Hardinge—"you were there often, while my sister-in-law was alive?"
"Yes, yes, often enough. The kiddies were badly brought up—badly brought up. I used to tell Philip so."
"I also," said Aunt Clo grimly. "The little Vonnie, now. Well did I see that the child was not destined to live long. I sought to open their eyes—oh, most gently, most kindly—and with what result, you ask? With the result that they declared themselves hurt—they proclaimed me unsympathetic. Me! Ha!"
Aunt Clo gave a short laugh.
"Well, well, well," said Charlie pacifically. "That's all over now, and Lily has a very nice home of her own. I'm sure you must be very proud of your niece, Miss Stellenthorpe. She's a charming girl, and a very pretty girl."