“Pooh!” sniffed Mellicent airily. “_I_ think he does it because he wants to. You never did appreciate Aunt Maggie. I’ll warrant she’s nicer and sweeter and—and, yes, prettier than lots of those old Chicago women. Aunt Maggie looked positively handsome that day she left here last July. She looked so—so absolutely happy! Probably he likes to take her to places. Anyhow, I’m glad she’s having one good time before she dies.”
“Yes, so am I, my dear. We all are,” sighed Miss Flora. “Poor Maggie!”
“I only wish he’d marry her and—and give her a good time all her life,” avowed Mellicent, lifting her chin.
“Marry her!” exclaimed two scornful voices.
“Well, why not? She’s good enough for him,” bridled Mellicent. “Aunt Maggie’s good enough for anybody!”
“Of course she is, child!” laughed Miss Flora. “Maggie’s a saint—if ever there was one.”
“Yes, but I shouldn’t call her a marrying saint,” smiled Jane.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” frowned Miss Flora thoughtfully. “Hattie always declared there’d be a match between her and Mr. Smith, you know.”
“Yes. But there wasn’t one, was there?” twitted Jane. “Well, then, I shall stick to my original statement that Maggie Duff is a saint, all right, but not a marrying one—unless some one marries her now for her money, of course.”
“As if Aunt Maggie’d stand for that!” scoffed Mellicent. “Besides, she wouldn’t have to! Aunt Maggie’s good enough to be married for herself.”