“No, indeed, Mr. Smith, don’t go,” smiled Mrs. Hattie pleasantly. “Besides, you are interested in what concerns us, I know—for the book; so, of course, you’ll be interested in this legacy of dear Cousin Stanley’s.”
Mr. Smith collapsed suddenly behind his handkerchief, with one of the choking coughs to which he appeared to be somewhat addicted.
“Ain’t you getting a little familiar with ‘dear Cousin Stanley,’ Hattie?” drawled Frank Blaisdell.
Miss Flora leaned forward earnestly.
“But, Hattie, we were just sayin’, ’fore you came, that it couldn’t be true; that it must mean some other Blaisdells somewhere.”
“Absurd!” scoffed Harriet. “There couldn’t be any other Frank and Jim and Flora Blaisdell, in a Hillerton, too. Besides, Jim said over the telephone that that was one of the best law firms in Chicago. Don’t you suppose they know what they’re talking about? I’m sure, I think it’s quite the expected thing that he should leave his money to his own people. Come, don’t let’s waste any more time over that. What we’ve got to decide is what to do. First, of course, we must order expensive mourning all around.”
“Mourning!” ejaculated an amazed chorus.
“Oh, great Scott!” spluttered Mr. Smith, growing suddenly very red. “I never thought—” He stopped abruptly, his face almost purple.
But nobody was noticing Mr. Smith. Bessie Blaisdell had the floor.
“Why, mother, I look perfectly horrid in black, you know I do,” she was wailing. “And there’s the Gaylords’ dance just next week; and if I’m in mourning I can’t go there, nor anywhere. What’s the use in having all that money if we’ve got to shut ourselves up like that, and wear horrid stuffy black, and everything?”