This was all so typical of her sister; all her memories of Louisa were made up of these queer little storms, these showers of tears, these rainbow smiles.
“Always so upsetting!” she thought, half angry. Yet there never had been any one dear to her in the way Louisa was.
“Come upstairs,” she said, firmly, “and get ready for dinner, and then—Oh! There’s Geordie!”
“Oh, Bella! Your son!”
“Louie, listen to me! You must not be—silly about Geordie. He won’t understand it, and he won’t like it. Do, for goodness’ sake, pull yourself together![Pg 431]”
But Louie couldn’t. She tried; she sat up very straight in her chair, and smiled, but Mrs. Russell was not satisfied. She wished that she had had time to put Louie in order before the boy saw her. He was so fastidious; what would he think of this unexpected aunt, with her wild, fair hair, her blue eyes swimming in tears, her trembling smile?
“She looks worn,” thought Mrs. Russell, “but not—well, somehow, not grown up!”
Geordie had come up the steps now; a good-looking young fellow, and somehow touching, with his sulky mouth and his sulky blue eyes.
“Louisa!” said Mrs. Russell, in a threatening voice. “This is my son, George. Geordie, your Aunt Louisa!”
Poor Louisa said nothing at all, for fear of bursting into tears, but Geordie could be trusted to behave with decorum. He said something about this being an unexpected pleasure; said it punctiliously. But Mrs. Russell knew at once, by the tone of his voice, that he didn’t like this aunt. She saw him cast a quick glance at her lamentable untidiness.