“Upon my word, Lucretia Ward, is it really you?” exclaimed her sister, making a wild dash into the conversation, determined to right herself and everything else if possible. She felt like a person suddenly upset in a canoe, and she struggled wildly to get her footing once more if there was any solid footing anywhere, with her sister Crete standing there calmly in an imported gown, her hair done up like a fashion-plate, and a millionaire’s smile on her pleasant face.
But Luella was growing angry. What did Aunt Crete mean by masquerading round in that fashion and making them ashamed before this handsome young man? and was he really their Western cousin? Luella felt that a joke was being played upon her, and she always resented jokes—at least, unless she played them herself.
Then Donald came to the front, for he feared for Aunt Crete’s poise. She must not lose her calm dignity and get frightened. There was a sharp ring in the other aunt’s voice, and the new cousin looked unpromising.
“And is this my Aunt Carrie? And my Cousin Luella?” He stepped forward, and shook hands pleasantly.
“I am glad to be able to speak with you at last,” he said as he dropped Luella’s hand, “though it’s not the first time I’ve seen you, nor heard your voice, either, you know.”
Luella looked up puzzled, and tried to muster her scattered graces, and respond with her ravishing society air; but somehow the ease and grace of the man before her overpowered her. And was he really her cousin? She tried to think what he could mean by having seen and talked with her before. Surely he must be mistaken, or—perhaps he was referring to the glimpse he had of her when Mr. Grandon bowed the evening before. She tossed her head with a kittenish movement, and arched her poorly pencilled eyebrows.
“O, how is that?” she asked, wishing he had not been quite so quick to drop her hand. It would have been more impressive to have had him hold it just a second longer.
“Why, I saw you the morning you left your home, as I was getting out of the train. You were just entering, and you called out of the window to a young lady in a pony-cart. You wore a light kind of a yellowish suit, didn’t you? Yes, I was very sure it was you.”
He was studying her face closely, a curious twinkle in his eyes, which might or might not have been complimentary. Luella could not be sure. The color rose in her cheeks and neck and up to her black-walnut hair till the red dress and the red face looked all of a flame. She suddenly remembered what she had called out to the young lady in the pony-cart, and she wondered whether he had heard or noticed.
“And then,” went on her handsome persecutor, “I had quite a long talk with you over the telephone, you know——”