"Lot-tie!" Mrs. Payson's voice at the foot of the staircase.
"Oh, my goodness!" All the light, the fun, the eagerness that had radiated Lottie's face vanished now. She snatched a handkerchief from the dresser and made for the stairs, snapping a fastener at her waist as she went. "Call Aunt Charlotte for dinner," she flung over her shoulder at Charley.
"All right. Can I have a drop of your perfume on my hank?" (Not quite so grown-up, after all.)
As she flew past the living room on her way to the pantry Lottie heard her mother's decided tones a shade more decisive than usual as she administered advice to her patient son-in-law.
"Put in a side-line then, until business picks up. Importing won't improve until this war is over, that's sure. And when will it be over? Maybe years and years——"
Henry Kemp's amused, tolerant voice. "What would you suggest, Mother Payson? Collar buttons—shoe strings—suspenders. They're always needed."
"You may think you're very funny, but let me tell you, young man, if I were in your shoes to-day I'd——"
The pantry door swung after Lottie. As she ranged oil, vinegar, salt, pepper, paprika on the shelf before her and pressed the pungent cheese against the bottom and sides of the shallow bowl with her fork, her face had the bound look that it had worn earlier in the day at Celia's. She blended and beat the dressing into a smooth creamy consistency.
They were all at table when Great-aunt Charlotte finally came down. She entered with a surprisingly quick light step. To-night she looked younger than her sister in spite of ten years' seniority. Great-aunt Charlotte was undeniably dressy—a late phase. At the age of seventy she had announced her intention of getting no more new dresses. She had, she said, a closet full of black silks and more serviceable cloth dresses collected during the last ten or more years. "We Thrifts," she said, "aren't long livers. I'll make what I've got do."
The black silks and mohairs had stood the years bravely, but on Aunt Charlotte's seventy-fifth birthday even the mohairs, most durable of fabrics, began to protest. The dull silks became shiny; the shiny mohairs grew dull. Cracks and splits showed in the hems and seams and folds of the taffetas. Great-aunt Charlotte at three-score ten and five had looked them over, sniffed, and had cast them off as an embryo butterfly casts off its chrysalis. She took a new lease on life, ordered a complete set of dresses that included a figured foulard, sent her ancient and massive pieces of family jewelry to be cleaned, and went shopping with Lottie for a hat instead of the bonnet to which she had so long clung.