“No, I am not hungry. It is not our habit to lunch at irregular hours; or it was not our habit, when I was mistress here. Where is Rosetta?”
“Gone to the village for an afternoon’s visit,” replied Paula, surprised in her turn by her aunt’s tone, and more hurt by it than she would have cared to show.
At this news Octave rejoiced, for she preferred telling her aunt as much other “Mystery” affair as she was free to divulge, and not have the account garbled by any other’s report. Oddly enough, her proceeding had never looked such a bold and strange one as it had during the few minutes since Aunt Ruth had returned.
“I wonder why I do feel so queer! I’m sure I did nothing wrong, nothing I would not do again, if I was placed in just such a position. And it is all coming out so beautifully, too. Oh, dear! How shall I get a chance to talk with her first!” thought Octave, growing more and more perplexed.
But presently Ruth’s eyes begun to wander afresh around the apartment. There was one other who had failed in her welcome, and that the sweet-faced Content. Octave interpreted the glance in her quick way, and replied to it. “Oh, it’s lamb and caper sauce this afternoon, Aunt Ruth. It’s the first tantrum Melville has had in some time. He really is the most improved boy—”
“There was plenty of room for it,” interrupted Ruth, grimly. “What was the ‘tantrum’ about?”
Octave colored. She could not answer without involving somebody else in possible blame, and that one she who, strangely enough, seemed already to have incurred it. Had the family been asked who would have the best record to show the absent house-mistress upon her return, the answer would have been unanimous, “Paula.” It was incomprehensible, yet it seemed true, that now Paula was the only one found wanting in favor.
“What was the ‘tantrum’ about, Octave? Thee must tell me.”
“It was a trifle, Aunt Ruth. If you please, I would rather not tell.”
“As thee likes. Christina, then.”