Aubrey used one small unprintable word.
"Furthermore," I added, "she will be so smooth and plausible about it, that you will not object to carrying out her wishes."
The Angel gave me a look.
"If we carry out her wishes, do you think that will be the reason?" he asked, quietly.
"No," I cried, impulsively. "It will be because as a host or as anything else you are an Angel."
But he is also a diplomat, as his next remark will show.
"As we are incapable with such generic instructions," he said, tapping Bee's letter with his pipe, "of knowing just how we must make ourselves over to suit her, and as Bee is never quite happy unless she is managing other people's affairs, suppose we wait until she comes and gives us specific orders?"
This was what I considered the height, climax, and acme of hospitality.
"Only," he warned me as we drove to the station to meet her, "try to remain, within bounds. The only thing I ha—criticize about Bee is that she makes such a coward of you. Remember when she tries to browbeat you, that I consider your taste and common sense better than hers, and that in any stand you take I am back of you, no matter what it is."
I pressed the Angel's hand gratefully. Bee's train was appallingly near, and my blissful married independence was rapidly degenerating into my former state of jelly-like sisterly dependence.