“Please go on, Aunt Kezia. Unfinished sentences are always awful things, because you don’t know how they are going to end.”
“You’ll end in the lock-up, if you don’t mind,” said my Aunt Kezia; “and if I were you, I wouldn’t.”
“I’ll try to keep on this side the door,” said Hatty, as lightly as ever. “And when is it to be, Aunt Kezia?”
“The month after next, I believe.”
“Isn’t Cecilia going home first, to see what her friends say about it?”
“She has none belonging to her, except an uncle and his family, and she says they will be delighted to hear it. Hatty, you had better get out of the way of calling her Cecilia. It won’t do now, you know.”
“But you don’t mean, Aunt Kezia, that we are to call her Mother!” cried Fanny, in a most beseeching tone.
“My dear, that must be as your father wishes. He may allow you to call her Mrs Courtenay. That is what I shall call her.”
“Isn’t it dreadful!” said poor Fanny.
“One thing more I have to say,” continued my Aunt Kezia, laying down her flannel again and putting on her spectacles. “Your father does not wish you to be present at his marriage.”