“Is—is Uncle Peter well?” she asked. “I haven’t heard from him for a long time.”
“Yes, he’s well,” Margaret said. “He’s looking better than he was for a while. He had some news to tell us too, Eleanor.”
Eleanor put her hand to her throat.
“What kind of news?” she asked huskily.
“He’s going to be married too. It came out when the others told us. He said that he hadn’t the consent of the lady to mention her name yet. We’re as much puzzled about him as we are about the other two.”
“It’s Aunt Beulah,” Eleanor said. “It’s Aunt Beulah.”
She sat upright on the edge of the bed and stared straight ahead of her. Margaret watched the light and life and youth die out of the face and a pitiful ashen pallor overspread it.
“I don’t think it’s Beulah,” Margaret said. “Beulah knows who it is, but I never thought of it’s being Beulah herself.”
“If she knows—then she’s the one. He wouldn’t have told her first if she hadn’t been.”
“Don’t let it hurt you too much, dear. We’re 268 all hurt some, you know. Gertrude—and me, too, Eleanor. It’s—it’s pain to us all.”