“Indeed! Got down to conventionality again?” “You would not call her unconventional, would you?”
“Oh, well; every one has a right to an opinion.”
Mrs. Levice glanced at her inquiringly. Without doubt there was an underground mine beneath this non-committal remark. Mrs. Lewis rocked violently backward and forward without raising her eyes. Her face was beet-red, and it looked as if an explosion were imminent. Mrs. Levice waited with no little speculation as to what act of Ruth her cousin disapproved of so obviously. She like Jennie; every one who knew her recognized her sterling good heart; but almost every one who knew her agreed that a grain of flour was a whole cake, baked and iced, to Mrs. Lewis’s imagination, and these airy comfits were passed around promiscuously to whoever was on hand. Not a sound broke the portentous silence but the decided snap with which Mrs. Lewis pulled her needle through, and the hurricane she raised with her rocking.
“I was at the theatre last night.”
The blow drew no blood.
“Which theatre?” asked Mrs. Levice, innocently.
“The Baldwin; Booth played the ‘Merchant of Venice.’”
“Did you enjoy it?” queried her aunt, either evading or failing to perceive the meaning.
“I did.” A pause, and then, “Did Ruth?”
Mrs. Levice saw a flash of daylight, but her answer hinted at no perturbation.