"But Aunt Anne!" wailed Iris. "Will you believe it, she's written to ask if we're expecting her here to-morrow—just two days before the wedding. And, of course, we're not. We never thought of her coming at all, did we, Mark, at her age?"
"And she's only sent you salt-cellars, at that," said Mark, with a rueful grin.
"We should be delighted to receive anyone at Culmhayes if it's a question of room," began Sir Julian, in voice wherein delight was not the most prominent emotion discernible.
"Thank you, Sir Julian, it's most awfully good of you. But it's not that. Douglas' father will insist on going to the hotel, with him, so we shall have a spare bed. But Aunt Anne wants such a lot of looking after; and then she'll be old-fashioned, and hate everything and disapprove of my frock, and—I can't bear it if she's to come and spoil everything," said Miss Easter, in an outburst of passionate resentment.
"My dear, what can it matter what other people think? One takes one's own line, without hurting or vexing anyone—that, never—but just quietly, without wondering what others may say——" But Lady Rossiter's generalities proved of no avail in soothing Iris, although they gave Douglas an opportunity for uttering a small effective Gaelicism.
"Dinna fash yersel', Iris, as we Kelts say at home."
"It's all very well, but how can I write and tell Aunt Anne not to come—that we aren't expecting her? It would look as though we didn't want her."
The truth of this implication appeared in such blatant obviousness to at least three of Iris' listeners that none of them spoke a word.
At last Sir Julian said drily:
"In fact, it's one of those disconcerting situations that look exactly what they really are."