With a bright nod to him, she turned back to Joan; drew slowly near to her; dropped kindly hands upon the shoulders of the girl.
"But, my dear!" she exclaimed in a tone of expostulation—"you are beautiful!"
XVIII
Escorting his aunt to the car, Matthias helped her in, closed the door, and then, with a grin of amused resignation masking that trepidation to which he was actually a prey, folded his arms on the top of the door and invited the storm with one word of whimsical accent: "Well?"
"Is it true?" she demanded, as if downright incredulous.
"Most true," he insisted with convincing simplicity.
The tip of one gloved finger to her chin, Helena considered remotely.
"She's very beautiful," she conceded, "and sweet and fetching and hopelessly plebeian. She'd be wonderful to have around, to look at; but to listen to.... Oh my dear! what are you thinking of?"
"Cut it," Tankerville advised from his corner. "None of your funeral, old lady."