Aunt Caroline polished her nose thoughtfully.
"That would account for a great deal," she admitted. "And her being English on both sides is something. Now that you speak of it, I did notice a slight accent. I never met an English person yet who could say "a" properly. But she is young and may learn. In the meantime—"
"The sandwiches are ready," called Desire from the tent.
CHAPTER XVII
"And do you mean to tell me that she really believes that lie?"
Benis Spence had taken his medical adviser up the slope to the Indian burying-ground. It was the one place within reasonable radius where they were not likely to be interrupted by periodic appearances of Aunt Caroline. Aunt Caroline never took liberties with burying-grounds. "A graveyard is a graveyard," said Aunt Caroline, "and not a place for casual conversation." There-fore, amid the graves and the crosses, the friends felt fairly safe.
"Why shouldn't she believe it?" countered Spence. "Don't you suppose I can tell a lie properly?"
"To be honest—I don't."
"Well," somewhat gloomily, "this one seemed to go over all right. It went much farther than I ever expected. It's far too up-and-coming. The way it grows frightens me. At first there was nothing—just an 'experience.' A mild abstraction, buried in the past, a sentimental 'has-been' without form or substance. Then, without warning, the experience acquired a name, and then a history and then, just when I had begun to forget about it, hair suddenly popped up, yellow hair, and, the day after, eyes—blue eyes, misty. The nose remains indeterminate, but noses often do. Only yesterday I felt compelled to add a mouth. Small and red, I made it—ugh! How I hate a small red mouth. Oh, if it amuses you—all right!"