"But this Nancy seems another matter. I remember her, off and on. I was often away when the Fletchers were home, and the girls were at school a good many years, but this Nancy is the sort of child that one doesn't forget. She's lovely—very fair—and exquisite. Her poor mother was always charming, and I imagine Doris Fletcher means to see that Nancy gets into no such snarl as poor Meredith's—Meredith was Doris's sister. Ken——!"
"Yes'm!" Raymond was looking at his watch.
"I wish you'd lend a hand next winter with this Nancy Thornton."
Raymond gave a guffaw and came around to Mrs. Tweksbury.
"You're about as opaque," he said, "as crystal. Of course I'll lend a hand, Aunt Emily—lend one, but don't count upon anything more. I—I do not want to marry—at least not for many years. My father and mother did not leave a keen desire in me for marriage."
"Oh! Ken, can't you forget?"
"I haven't yet, Aunt Emily, but I'm not a conceited ass; your Miss Nancy would probably think me a dub; girls don't fly at my head, but I'm safe as a watchdog and errand boy—so I'll fit in, Aunt Emily."
He bent and kissed her.
A week later the old house was draped and covered with ghostly linen and every homelike touch eliminated according to the sacred rites of the old régime; and man, that most domestic of all animals, was left to the contemplation of a smothered ideal—the ideal of home.
Mrs. Tweksbury, with two servants, started by motor for Maine.