“And now you're not afraid?”
She blushed again. It was very becoming.
“It seems—it seems foolish to act like strangers when it's been so long—we remember so well—” She sighed a little. He studied her face—so like her sister's and so utterly different. The same gray eyes, but calm and drooped; the same clear white skin, but a fuller, yes, a more matronly face, a riper, sweeter, more restful curve. The soft dark shadows that accentuated Mrs. Dudley's eyes were lacking; a group of tiny wrinkles at the corners gave her instead a pleasant, humorous regard that her sister's literal directness missed utterly.
Nervous under his scrutiny, she rose hastily, and before he could prevent her she had brought him a roomy arm-chair from the house.
“At our age there's no use in running risks,” she said simply, “you ought not to sit on the grass; leave that for the young folks.”
Again he winced, but dropped with relief into the chair.
“Oh, one must keep up with the procession, you know!” he said lightly.
She made no reply; and as she lifted the bottle and began to beat the yellow mass again, it occurred to him that the remark was exceptionally silly.
“Does it have to go in slowly like that—the whole bottleful?” he inquired lazily.
She nodded. “Or it curdles,” she explained. “The cook sprained his wrist yesterday. He never allows anybody to make the mayonnaise—he can't trust them—and I was glad to do it for him. He says mine is as good as his. Did you ever see him?”