"Oh, what makes you like his nose?"
"Because it isn't too little, and because it's rather bony, and because it's got a bridge."
"Oh, well, I think I'd prefer it quite straight instead of aquiline. But he's very handsome. It's nice having him look like that."
Emmie held the photograph off, and tilted her head from side to side.
"Grandma says cousin Ethan and me used to be rather alike as children." She smiled contentedly. "I hope he'll go to church."
She took the picture back presently, but before she replaced it on the mantel-piece she looked round over her shoulder. Reassured, she kissed the pasteboard fervently, and put it down with shamefaced, fluttering haste.
The sun set and the light faded. Still no Ethan. A brief interval for supper at six, and the three returned to the parlor. Mrs. Gano manifested a hitherto unsuspected leaning towards illumination. The branch candlesticks, for the first time within the memory of man, held each its triple flame, and a shaded lamp shed a crimson glow over the centre table. She made an excursion into the hall, and complained that the Moorish lamp burned faint and insufficiently. She came back, saying:
"It will seem cold after France," and with her own hands she lit the ready-laid fire in the grate. Later, she went to the front door and objected to the absence of the moon.
"It's really dangerous coming up those steps in the pitch-dark, especially since the second stone was broken."
At half-past eight she shut her book suddenly.