So they went back to the sitting-room together, when Miss Myers excused herself for a few minutes whilst she went to give the finishing touches to her table—to see that the girl had set it properly, get out the best china and the silver teapot, the richest fruit-cake, the finest canned peaches, and fill the cream ewer with the thickest of cream.
Andrew was leaning against a window casement as Judith entered the room. The broad window-sills were full of flowers; the heavy old red curtains were pushed far back to the sills, making a dusky background for Andrew's tall figure in its rusty velveteens. Judith advanced toward him, her yellow frock looking almost white in the waning light, the purple heartsease a dark blot upon her breast.
"Isn't that plant pretty?" she asked Mrs. Morris, feeling a nervous desire to include her in the conversation—she felt so much alone with Andrew.
"Which?" asked Mrs. Morris, joining them at the window. "The 'Aaron's Beard' or the 'Jacob's Ladder'?"
"I mean this hanging plant," said Judith.
"Oh, the 'Mother of Millions'; yes, it's real handsome," said Mrs. Morris, looking at the luxuriant pot of Kenilworth Ivy over which Judith was bending.
"What a funny name!" said Judith.
"Oh, it don't make much difference about the names of 'em," returned Mrs. Morris. "Only so long as you know 'em by 'em."
Miss Myers entered, and they followed her to the dining-room.
Miss Myers was reputedly the most forehanded house-keeper in Ovid, and supposed to set the best table of any one in the village, "and no thanks to her for it; she's got plenty to do with"—as her neighbours often said. But in spite of her liberal house-keeping, Miss Myers "looked well to the ways of her household"; there were no small channels of waste permitted under her régime.