“Nothing better than Leghorns,” said Jethro.
“Tch!” interrupted Gainah, with her air of absolutism, “Langshans are better.”
“But they are not nice table birds.” Mrs. Turle smiled on them both and took another cake. “Now, I must say I like the Plymouth Rock—only its legs are yellow.”
Pamela, with the superior air of a being on a higher plane, poured out her newly-found aunt a third cup of tea.
The talk went on. She heard Gainah and Mrs. Turle talk of wine-making, cider-making, apple-storing.
“Our Blenheims,” Gainah complained, “have all gone a-bitel.”
“They will go mildewed some years. I don’t know why,” returned Mrs. Turle sympathetically; “ours have kept beautifully so far. I’ll ask Evergreen if we can spare you some.”
It was a very long meal. The dying sun straggled round the house and filled the dull room with yellow light. Through the latticed window they could see the mist rising like a huge bridal wreath from the wet grass. Mrs. Turle got up hurriedly when the housemaid came in to say that her carriage had come round.
“You must spend a long afternoon with us soon,” she said, kissing Pamela. “What are we doing on Wednesday, Nancy?”
“It’s the Shakspere class, mamma.”