"Who's going to tell her?" he asked, blankly.
It worried us both all the way home; but the question was settled in quite an unexpected manner, for it was grandmother Harcourt who went to tell grandmother Lawrence. She put on her best black silk, and her lace veil, and her cameo pin, and she held up her head very high in the air as she went out of the front gate.
"I shall tell her a few wholesome truths," she said, determinedly. "I shall speak as woman to woman."
"It is really not so bad after all," my father told my mother. "They talk of a concert tour for the boy, and he comes of a good old family, if it has fallen on evil times."
He paused for a moment, his eyes searching the future.
"And if your father runs for mayor—I don't say that he will, but if he should be persuaded to run—why, that story would bring him in a great many votes. It's so pretty and romantic. All the world loves a lover you know."
My mother sighed blissfully, and motioned to him to peep in the parlor door.
There in the darkest corner sat Auntie May and Burton Raymond on a sofa together. They sat and looked at each other for hours and hours and hours.