Safely in the car, Lottie waxed stern again. "Why didn't you wait, Aunt Charlotte? You knew I'd be back as soon as I could. I didn't mean to be late. That was awfully naughty of you, Charlotte Thrift."
Aunt Charlotte was looking out of the car window. What she saw must have been little more than a blur to her. But something told Lottie that in the dim eyes turned away from her was still another blur—a blur of hot mist. Lottie leaned forward, covering with her own firm cool young grasp the hand that lay so inertly in the black silk lap. "What is it? Why——"
Aunt Charlotte turned and Lottie saw that what she had sensed was true. "It isn't right!" said Aunt Charlotte almost fiercely, and yet in a half-whisper, for the car was crowded and she had a horror of attracting public notice.
"What isn't?"
"Your calling for me, and bringing me back. Every day. Every day."
"Now! You're just a little blue to-day; but the doctor said you'd only have to come down for treatment a week or two more."
"It isn't me. It's you. Your life! Your life!"
A little flush crept into Lottie's face. "It's all right, dear."
"It isn't all right. Don't you think I know!" Aunt Charlotte's voice suddenly took on a deep and resonant note—the note of exhortation. "Lottie, you're going to be eaten alive by two old cannibal women. I know. I know. Don't you let 'em! You've got your whole life before you. Live it the way you want to. Then you'll have only yourself to blame. Don't you let somebody else live it for you. Don't you."
"How about mother, slaving down in that office all day, when all the other women of her age are taking it easy—a nap at noon, and afternoon parties, and a husband to work for them?"