“It’s an art,” declared Barnes to the little old lady as she stood in the doorway, a living human question mark. “It’s an art to be able to tie a bow-knot. I’ve practiced twenty years and succeeded only in developing an affair with dropping ends which won’t come untied.”
Aunt Philomela did not display as much interest as she might in this statement. She was one to go to the heart of things. She was not to be decoyed from the nub of a situation. Very well, then, he decided, she should have it.
“Eleanor and I,” he informed her, “thought of taking to the road.” He added immediately not so bold as he had determined to be,
“I must get my bag.”
“John is at your service,” snapped Aunt Philomela, instantly.
“But John isn’t able to exercise for me; John isn’t able to drink in the sun for me. There are many things that John couldn’t do for me.”
It was clear these considerations had little weight with her.
“Perhaps you’ll come along too?” he ventured.
If it had been within the realm of possibility for her to make her feeble limbs wag over those four miles she would have taken him up just to foil the childlike innocence with which he veiled his sense of confident security. Even as it was, she contrived to frighten him.
“I will order the carriage.”