“She was very pleasant indeed to-day. Perhaps she is grouchy because she is lonely.”
“Azalea,” gasped my grandmother, “what was the word you used? Grouchy? What does that mean, pray? No such word was in use in my day.”
Then I saw myself as I was, a very naughty young person, setting all these lovely folks at odds.
“It means what I am to-night—cross and hateful, dearest grandmother. Please, please forgive me for using it. I ought never to use anything but the nicest words I know in your presence.”
I picked up her little wrinkled hand and squeezed it, and she looked at me as I love to have her, with something of the love in her eyes which she gave in the old days to my unforgotten, wayward father.
“Aunt Lorena,” I said, “she really does want me to visit her. But I’ll make it a weekend instead of two weeks if you think best.”
“We couldn’t spare you for two weeks, Azalea,” said Uncle David kindly. “Make it a week-end, do. For my part, I am glad you like her. Particularly glad. She is a lonely and hurt soul, is poor Delight, who delights nobody.”
At that, Carin, things I had heard came back to me, and I knew she once had loved uncle. It must be a terrible thing to love someone, always, who cares nothing for you. I can’t think of anything worse.
“I already had made up my mind to like her,” I said.
When we went to the drawing-room it was raining so terribly, and the wind was blowing so wildly, that the great room was unbearable.