There was trouble in the girl's voice, too.
"I—don't think so."
"It's a very pretty country—a hard country to forget." Miss Sarah very wisely gave no heed to the woebegone note. "Perhaps," archly, "perhaps you'll be returning as the new Mrs. Wickersham?"
Barbara flushed duskily. Miss Sarah, however, was gazing at a dog-eared picture—a very old-fashioned picture of a youth in brave and resplendent garb of a period long dead. No one but herself and her brother had seen that photograph for many years, and he only because he had rummaged in a pigeon-hole in which he had no licence to look. His sister's eyes, as well as her posture, were girlish when she laid it aside to hold up to view a battered black velvet suit with wide collars and cuffs.
"I wonder if you could ever guess who once wore this?" she laughed lightly.
Politely Barbara examined it.
"I'm sure I couldn't," she answered. And, very slowly:
"Miriam is going to marry Garry Devereau. She is disgracefully happy about it."
The older woman received this irrelevance with composure.
"How charming," she said. "And I am sure that they will continue to be as happy as I hope you will be soon. This suit was Steve's—little Steve's. Dear me, what a day that was!"