"Game-fish!" repeated Aunt Charlotte Thrift, gazing straight at Lottie. Lottie waited, expectantly. "Your Grandfather Thrift had a saying: 'Only the game-fish swim upstream.'"
"Oh," said Lottie; and even coloured a little, like a girl.
Mrs. Payson had regarded her elder sister pityingly. "Well, how did you happen to drag that in, Charlotte?" In a tone which meant, simply—"Childish! Senile!"
On this particular Friday night the Kemps were indeed there as Lottie ran quickly up the front steps of the house on Prairie. The Kemp car, glossy and substantial, stood at the curb. Charley drove it with dashing expertness. At the thought of Charley the anxious frown between Lottie Payson's fine brows smoothed itself out. Between aunt and niece existed an affection and understanding so strong, so deep, so fine as to be more than a mere blood bond. Certainly no such feeling had ever existed between Lottie and her sister Belle; and no such understanding united Belle and her daughter Charley.
The old walnut and glass front door slammed after Lottie. They were in the living room—the back parlor of Isaac Thrift's day.
"Lottie!" Mrs. Payson's voice; metallic.
"Yes."
"Well!"
Mrs. Payson was standing, facing the door as Lottie came in. She was using her cane this evening. She always walked with her cane when she was displeased with Lottie or Belle; some obscure reason existed for it. She reminded you of one of these terrifying old dowagers of the early English novels.
"Hello, Belle! Hello, Henry! Sorry I'm late."