At the round table covered with sun-bleached napery and silver that caught the candle light until it seemed ablaze, Aunt Philomela, with a diplomacy equaled only by that of King Arthur, had so arranged the places that no one could tell who sat opposite who. She herself presided at the quaint old silver tea urn, so that naturally marked the head of the board. But Barnes and Miss Van Patten were placed equi-distant from her on either side so that they did not face one another.
On the table were damson preserves, a clear crimson as of molten rubies; milk-white bread; a bowl of crisp salad fresh from the garden; and a pitcher of milk so heavy with cream that it poured the lightest possible shade of coffee-color.
Aunt Philomela had freshened herself in a purple gown relieved by spider thread lace. Her niece was in a gossamer white China silk sprinkled with blue polka dots. In her black hair she wore a tortoise-shell comb surmounted with old gold scroll of the finest Venetian workmanship. It was just the touch needed to bring out the Italian richness of her features. She might now have been presiding at some old Patrician board with the chanties of the gondoliers floating in at the open windows, except for Aunt Philomela, stern as a Puritan conscience—and the damson preserves. On the whole Barnes liked her better in her present setting. To them all came the song of a whip-poor-will mourning to his mate beneath the purple sky in the orchard just outside.
“How will you have your tea?” asked Aunt Philomela.
“With cream, Aunt Philomela, no sugar if you please.”
Miss Van Patten held her breath. Aunt Philomela sat fixed with the tongs poised over the square sugar bowl.
“Such audacity!” she choked.
“I was only speaking my line,” he hastened to explain. “The servants, you know.”
“I think it quite necessary,” put in the girl, hastily bringing up reënforcements at the sight of her aunt’s snapping eyes.
“It will take me some time to get used to it,” added Barnes. “You see I haven’t the good fortune to have a real aunt.”