“My dear Mrs. Daniver,” said I, helping her to her chair while L’Olonnois served his Auntie Helena in like fashion, “you really must not take one too seriously. That lighthouse fell over of its own weight—the contractor’s work was done shamefully.”
“But you said it blew,” ventured Helena.
“It blows, a little, now and then, to be sure, but never very much, only enough to enable the oyster boats and shrimpers to get in. How could we have oysters without a sailing breeze?”
“It’s more than a breeze,” said Aunt Lucinda. “My neuralgia tells me——”
“It is fortunate that you honored us, my dear Mrs. Daniver,” said I, “for I have here in the cooler a bottle of ninety-three. I had an inspiration. I knew you would come, for nothing in the world could have pleased me so much.”
I was looking at Helena, whose eyes were cast down. I observed now that she was in somewhat elegant morning costume, her bridge coat of Vienna lace, caught with a wide bar of plain gold, covering some soft and shimmering under-bodice which fitted closely enough to be formal. And I saw she had on many rings, and that her throat sparkled under a circlet of gems.
She must have caught my glance of surprise, for she said nervously, “You think we are overplaying our return call? Well, the truth is, we’re afraid.”
“So then?”—and I bowed.
“So then I fished out all my jewelry.”
“We are honored.”