"Yes, Aunt Marjie, they've done it every year since they were married!"
"They have? Well, now, I call that pure romance! How coy! How it must carry them back! I think I'd really like to know the Goodmans. There isn't such a great deal of pure romance available nowadays. People are too self-conscious."
"You'll meet them tonight," was the hope Mrs. Needham held out. And then, while her husband began carving fresh slices of lamb, and since the subject of the Midsummer Roast seemed about exhausted, Anna went chattily on: "Marjie, I must say I like Mr. O'Donnell real well."
"Speaking of pure romance?" her sister sparklingly interpolated. "Yes," she continued, "Barrett's a good chap. Used to be a bit egregious, you know, in the old days. But he's mellowed wonderfully. I—I'll let you in on a tremendous secret," she added, with mock breathlessness, and addressing herself to Alfred behind her hand. "If he should happen to ask me again—I'm only saying if, you understand...." She finished eloquently in pantomime.
The Rev. Needham dropped his fork, but quickly recovered it and went on eating. He had just told himself that no matter what new monstrosity his sister-in-law might enunciate, he would magnificently let it pass. He would not appear to notice it. He was a clergyman. There was a certain dignity to be preserved in spite of everything. But good heavens, she had said it behind her hand!
"Oh-h-h!" said Hilda. She giggled.
"Barrett is an old peach," continued Miss Whitcom quite brazenly. "He's stood by me through everything!"
The Rev. Needham nearly dropped his fork again. That awful word. Everything! And she could be so damnably cool about it! Was he narrow or old-fashioned to feel the way he did? Yet would not feeling any other way be simply debauching oneself? Ah, if, instead of his changing his own point of view, she might somehow drop off into a deep, painless slumber.... And never wake....
"Well, then," said Anna, who had kept perfectly her head, and was also rather thrilled, "I hope he will, Marjie."
Marjory looked dreamily off through the open window. A few birches caught the evening light mistily, and were dyed a delicate pink all along their slim white trunks. Would he? Ah, of course! And yet.... Well—hm?... If not, why.... She mentally tossed her head. But what she told herself was not quite so haughty: "In that case I could hardly blame anybody but myself...."