“You lamb!” exclaimed Anne aloud as her beloved lady ended. And the words made every one, Anne included, laugh, and this brought the emotional part of the entertainment to a close.
“But there’s no end more that I know!” exclaimed Mrs. Garden naïvely, as she took a lettuce sandwich and welcomed her tea.
“Let me tell you a secret!” said Audrey Dallas, as she, too, accepted a sandwich, but preferred the lemonade as the alternative to tea which Anne had provided. “A New York paper, the Morning Planet, takes items which I send it, sometimes, for the Sunday issue.”
“Audrey! You do! You do!” cried Nanette Hall, with varying emphasis, but one emotion of amazement.
“Sometimes, Nan,” said Audrey, laughing. “Will you mind if I write about your having come back to America, to Vineclad, where you had lived as a bride, and how you had returned to your career, leaving your children here? And how you were now resting and delighting your friends, as you had delighted thousands of the English public? You know how they always say those things! And may I say that you were known to the world as Miss Lynette Devon, your maiden name, but in private were Mrs. Elias Garden, the widow of Elias Garden, LL.D., a scholar who had lived an exceedingly private life in Vineclad, New York? And then will you care if I add something about the happiness your talent gives your neighbours when you are kind enough to entertain them? It wouldn’t sound like this when I’d written it, you know, but this would be the material I’d use. Would you mind, dear Mrs. Garden?”
“Not in the least,” said Mrs. Garden. “It would be rather nice of you, Audrey—I can’t call you girls Miss; you’re my daughters’ friends, you see! Then I’d mail copies of that paper over to England, and people would know I still lived. The London papers could be got to copy it. Oh, girls, sometimes it tears my heart to know I’m laid on the shelf!” Tears sprang into Mrs. Garden’s eyes and glistened on her cheeks.
“Steady, Lynette,” Win interposed. “Just look at the three jam-and-honey pots you found on the shelf, waiting you here!”
“Oh, I know, Win; I do know, really!” cried the artist. “And I’m happy here, truly! But they used to applaud me so, and call: ‘Lynette! Ah, Lynette, our pet! You can do it, you bet!’ from the galleries, don’t you know; the boys! And the flowers they sent me and the sweets! And it was all as if they liked me, the me back of it all, don’t you know! One can’t help loving all that. But the girls are dear to me, simply dear to me! Indeed I’m grateful!”
Mary put her arm around her with the gesture she used when she saw that her fragile mother was overtired.
“We don’t ‘like’ you, Lynette, our pet!” she whispered. “We love you, as all England could never love you.”